


The Purloined Letter

by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)



Series: A/B/O bodice rippers [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha Jackson Whittemore, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha Scott McCall, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Seduction, Beta Kate Argent, Disabled Character, F/M, I'm adding lots of tags for this one, Kate being Kate, M/M, Mpreg, No heat, Omega Allison Argent, Omega Chris Argent, Omega Corey Bryant, Omega Kira Yukimura, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Peter being Peter, Wordcount: 50.000-100.000, and heartbreaking, despite the title it has nothing to do with poe, explicit adult situations, i am laughing so evilly writing this, might add characters - Freeform, you will all ship laura/duke because it's awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 83,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphim_grace/pseuds/DarkAthena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate Argent learns that Peter Hale has a letter, the contents of which, if known, would ruin her, and decides the best place to find it would be the hunting party arranged for the Whittemore-Martin engagement celebrations, but there are some issues with her plan, Peter has brought his nephew, the house is full of omega meaning everyone is watching everyone else, Lydia is not as happy with the engagement as her mother casting her eyes on someone else, her niece, who she's meant to be chaperoning has eyes for a penniless Scottish Lord, and she's not even sure that Peter brought the letter with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> If something comes up in the story that you think needs tagged or a warning please let me know, I'm not infallible and sometimes things will slip through and I can certainly change the plan.
> 
> This fic will contain some light petting but I have no plans atm for explicit sex in this - mostly because sex scenes in Regency romances are hilariously bad, with burning spears of man love, and warm petals of her flower and I doubt I could write one without dying (both of laughter AND mortification)
> 
> I had to take it back, Stiles is a horny toad, I can't do much about it, sorry, there is now sex

Her Ladyship, Katherine Argent Vesey, was in a foul temper. She had just learned that the letter that she had sent to her lover, Sebastian Valet, a French _emigre_ with a charming smile and comfortable pocketbook, had not been received, and thus destroyed, three years previous, and that through the random circumlocutions of fate that same letter was currently in the hands of Lord Peter Hale, a man with whom her family shared a long animosity, but with whom Valet had a long-standing business arrangement.

It was not that Lord Peter had the letter that was the cause of her distemper, although it certainly did not aid it, but rather the contents of the letter which, if revealed, would ruin her entire. Even the happenstance by which Lord Peter had acquired the letter were irrelevant if he ever chose to use it.

Lord Peter had, in his usual capricious manner, agreed that he would not release the contents of the letter as long as Kate called off her attempts to seduce his nephew, Roderick, whom he called Derek, and acquire his title and wealth for herself. He was open in his distaste for her and had brought into the conversation at a dinner party to which they had both been invited. He had approached her and stated his intent plainly, with no little amount of threat, and revealed that he not only knew the contents of the letter but that he had friends at the Times who would be delighted to publish it unless she acceded to his will.

With no other choice Kate stopped her flirtations with his nephew, who although very well titled and extremely rich, was boring, and changed her intent from finding a second wealthy husband to replace the deceased first, who, despite rumours to the contrary she had not killed, to destroying Peter Hale and taking the letter with her.

If the letter was published both she and her son would be cast out, her father, who had a career in politics, would disown her and it was unlikely that her brother’s alpha, Victoria, would take her in either.

So it was paramount that the letter was destroyed.

Sitting in her pile of correspondence, only slightly covered in milk from her son's visit to Mama that morning- his nurse informed Kate it was his favourite part of the day: the ten minutes where she was in her morning dressing robe that she had time for him-, was an invitation to the Whittemore Manor near Bath where Sir Jonathan was holding a three-day hunting party to celebrate the engagement of his son, Jackson, to Vidama Lydia Martin. Gossip suggested that the Vidama was not as well pleased as her parents with the match and that Lord Peter had his eye on seducing the young Vidama before she was married, so he would attend the party with his nephew, and knowing Peter as she did, for she had been his lover as a new bride, Peter would certainly bring the letter with him, not trusting it to be left unattended.

She took out a sheet of her writing paper, scented as it was with orange blossom, rosemary and old rose, so those who received it would immediately recognise her as the sender, and quickly penned an agreement to attend, noting that she would offer herself to her brother as a chaperone for her omega niece, and folded it into a piece of unscented paper and sealed it with a dark pink wax before settling back into her chair.

Peter Hale could not be allowed to retain the letter, and he was well aware of her usual tactics in its theft. He would not weaken to her beauty or her charms, so she would have to try something else instead. It might be well known that Kate was a somewhat merry widow, she had been somewhat fond of her husband, who was only three times her age when they married, but the idea that she might lose her small estate and house in London, never mind that her son who would be given to her brother as an omega, when she was drummed out of the country with all of her wealth being taken by the same solicitors who served her now, was unthinkable.


	2. In which Derek and his uncle arrive at the Whittemore estate

Roderick Rutherford Hale, Marquess of Wessex, was pouting like a child with his arms crossed against his chest and trying to manage to both pout and glare at his uncle, Lord Peter Weston Hale, of the Wessex Hales, across the carriage as it rattled along the road to Great Chalfield Manor outside Bath where the Whittemore family were hosting the social event of the summer. With the London season closed with parliament, the Whittemores had taken advantage of the clement May weather to host the hunting party that they were using to announce the wedding of their alpha son, Jackson, to the Martin Omega, Lydia.

Roderick, most commonly called Derek, did not want to be in Bath. He didn't want to be in the carriage with his uncle and was almost certain that he had spoken to neither the young alpha or the vidama whose impending nuptials he was supposed to be celebrating. His uncle, ever the rake, however, knew everyone, most of whom biblically, and believed it was past time his nephew, the Marquess of Wessex. married and if it was to someone who was capable of shoehorning him out of his office and into society so much the better.

Derek did not want to be in Bath, he did not want to be in a carriage with his uncle on an especially clement day when he would much rather be riding, and he did not want to go to the hunting party, for although he was a fine rider and enjoyed being on horseback, he loathed hunting, which always felt like it was designed for the host to show off his proficiency whilst his guests took the opportunity to not dash ahead and ruin the illusion he created.

He did not want to borrow one of the Whittemore's horses for he had no knowledge if they were worth the stable space. He did not want to read from their library, and he certainly did not want to have to share the next week with the cream of society after he had spent an entire season avoiding them. So he was willing to admit he was pouting and glaring because he had found no excuse to get him out of this that Peter had agreed to.

Peter, on the other hand, was quite amused at his nephew’s obvious distemper. He was in a fair mood, the waitress at the inn where they had spent the night had proven to be amenable to his suggestions and was more than happy to aid him with his dress, causing them only to be a little late on the road, but it would have been rude to turn down such an offer. Even though Derek clearly knew what it was that had held up his uncle, even if he had- and he had not- tried to be discreet.

Great Chalford Manor was a fine house, the grounds well maintained and it was clear that others had arrived before them as there were two omega: one male; one female, walking along the path to the big house with a parasol between them, gossiping like a pair of brightly coloured birds. The Vidama was small, reaching only the shoulder height of her companion, with dark red hair and a pleasant oval face. She had wrapped her arm around that of the Vidame, who was wearing a dark red velvet coat, in defiance of current fashion than unmarried omega only wear white or pastels, and had dark hair and a lithe frame, matched to the light green the vidama was wearing, and holding aloft the cream and lace-trimmed parasol they were walking under. The parasol must have been a late addition to their day wear as it matched what neither of them were wearing. Derek wondered if they had been pressured to take it on their way outside. Then he decided he had given far too much attention to them and any more would mean that his uncle would notice and try to arrange a tryst with either of them for him. Peter was pretty sure that the only way to get Derek to agree to a marriage was by questioning his honour.

Derek noticed that his uncle was also looking at the two omegas, and not necessarily the dog that was loping along behind them, it was a fine figure of a hound, possibly one of the Whittemore's hunting dogs, or at least from that stock. “You look like a rapacious fox lately come upon an unguarded henhouse.”

“You wound me, nephew." Peter said as the coach finally came to a stop, “you know that I am more a wolf," his answering grin was distinctly lupine. “And I noticed that you also cast your gaze upon the two and found them pleasing to the eye.” He stepped down from the carriage and turned to look at his nephew, awaiting an answer.

"It made a pleasant change from trees and the rest of Somerset, but so too, did the dog.”

“Lady Whittemore's mops are the talk of Bath,” Peter told him, “and I wonder if she hasn't put that attention to detail to her husband’s brood. But such omega are pleasant enough to look upon, perhaps you could find yourself blessed enough to look upon one daily.”

Derek tried to deflect the subject that his uncle had lit upon. “Or perhaps I might take home one of those hounds to run alongside me as I ride.” 

“Are you sure you would not rather have a second horse alongside your bay, or even perhaps you would like to be ridden.” Derek couldn't help the flash of memory of someone rising up above him, before pushing themselves back down, his hands on their hips and their shift hanging loosely from their shoulders. He was not a monk and had, early in his manhood, had a lover before his uncle discovered his mistress Genevieve was not a French _emigre_ as she presented herself, or even the merchant Jennifer Peter had discovered her as, but was, in fact, a known confidence trickster called Julia and run her out of London. It had been a while but he had experienced the pleasures of the flesh.

“I would rather you were not so coarse," Derek answered, he was used to his uncle’s frankness but many were not.

“I would rather you married," Peter told him, “then perhaps the pressure of your sisters would be taken from my own marital status.”

“My sisters will not be content until both of us are married, Laura especially is most determined that we join her in connubial bliss, but secretly I think she yearns for the excuse to plan a marital supper, and to have someone with whom to gossip about our flaws. And you are long past the age where marriage is expected, there are plenty of fine beta maidens and omega in the ton this year, is it that none have caught your eye?”

Derek knew exactly where Peter’s eye had fallen; on the red-headed omega who was walking the grounds, he just didn't know yet who she was.

Lady Whittemore, a woman who maintained the title entirely through marriage because her husband had, through service to the king in shipping and something to do with the East India company that Derek had no care to learn, gained a knighthood, met them at the door.

She was a tall thin woman with a pretty face but sour expression, and limp blonde hair that she had attempted to pull into a fashionable style but the weight of which had rendered impossible. She was unfashionably slim and wore a striking day dress of black and white stripes that served only to make her appear sallow. Like a good married woman she wore a lace _fichu_ tucked into her bodice and matching gloves, but she paired it with a diamond cross that looked to be about the size of Derek's thumbnail, but Derek's own alpha parent, Talia, had said that money did not guarantee taste and such a show of wealth this early in the day was rather gauche. “Welcome, welcome," she said, waving them towards the day, “you're both so welcome to our humble home, we are so glad to have you here to celebrate our son’s engagement, he will be so happy to know such illustrious gentlemen came to join us.”

Peter had the rare ability to make clearing his throat sound like a swallowed laugh but he stepped forward to kiss the woman's hand and the charm he was known for made the woman blush and put her other hand, the one Peter was not kissing, up to her throat as she smiled. She didn't appear to be one of the wives of society that men would court for anything other than money.

Derek was certain that most of those who would be attending this hunting party would be more interested in the omega guests than the Whittemores. He knew his uncle was. At the end of the party at least one of the omega would be compromised by his uncle and he could only hope that he got away from the protective parent or guardian before they learned the truth that their baby had been deflowered and chased him down to force him into marriage whereupon he denied everything and challenged them to a duel to defend his honour, and as a renowned duelist no one wanted to face him so he got away with it.

No one would consider Peter Hale a good man.

The Whittemore estate had been decorated to the highest aspects of fashion, and Lady Whittemore was explaining that when she had bought the place the previous owners had left their old tapestries mouldering on the walls, and some of the carpets were as old as the building, so of course they had to go and were replaced by the latest Aubusson carpets in bright colours and the stone walls had been plastered and covered in patterned fabric. It took some work to turn a medieval manor into a Georgian fashion catalogue but she had managed it.

Part of Derek wondered if he should make an offer for those mouldering tapestries and medieval carpets because his own estate could certainly use more, Aubusson carpets and Chippendale furniture were certainly _a propos_ in London, but in the manor house it was all about what worked and could be used hard without the ghost of his mother wincing over the damage. But old houses were meant to have old furnishings.

Peter, of course, was making suitably pleased noises about the decoration, and the new chandelier which she had bought from New York which was thriving after the revolution, although she had thought it would take longer for it to find its footing after the fighting but she had gotten an excellent deal on it so much so that she simply had to pick it up there and then.

Peter was charming so Derek didn't need to be. He made the correct noises when he was shown to his room, which was bright and well appointed, with polished floorboards and a thick carpet, there was a pleasant counterpane and a second thick blanket folded at the base of the bed, which had a canopy. There was a small fireplace and beside it a desk with a stool, and a candlestick with fresh candles. It was a fine guest room especially considering that so many guests had been invited for the party and the Hales were titled but not highly ranked and he had thought that he might have been forced to share a room, if not a bed, with his uncle, if only because it made sure that they knew where Peter was.

Although if Lady Whittemore had a room of her own, and did not share with her husband, that might be where he would be tonight. Omegas often took more seducing than married women.

“Peter Hale," the use of his uncle's name with no honorific could mean only one person, Grand Marshal Szeraf Stilinski of Poland served alongside the Polish Ambassador after a rather unpleasant altercation with the king of Poland in regards to the Grand Marshal’s late wife, if he was here it was with his son, who, now Derek thought about it, would be of marriageable age so it was not past the realm of possibility that he would be invited. “If I was not worried before." He spoke with a heavy accent, but Derek had always liked him. He was stern and forbidding but honest and fair, something very rare in London society. Like Derek he was rarely invited to the more intimate meetings as opposed to the larger balls, but if his omega son, whose name Derek had heard but was sure he could repeat if forced to, had come out he would be at the party.

“Come now, _Marszalek wielki_ ," he said in fair, as far as Derek could tell, Polish, at least for the title, “you malign me. No matter what you have heard I do not cheat at cards.”

“Oh gentlemen,” Lady Whittemore said with an unpleasant simper, “my husband has decreed that only small bets are allowed, for now, we wouldn't want our guests falling out for something as small as their vowels.”

“Do not listen to him, Jemima," The marshal said, “Peter Hale is a notorious card sharp, and is not above using distraction to gain the upper hand, it is good that you placed the omegas on the top floor," he was making it clear that they were segregated and he knew that they were and that he would be enforcing the segregation and keeping a firm eye on Peter without giving it away to Lady Whittemore that he was a threat.

“Then I shall have to restrict the omegas from the card table if he is so notorious for abusing them so horribly.” Jemima Whittemore giggled between them, Derek merely rolled his eyes and closed the door leaving them out in the corridor.


	3. in which there is tea

Derek had set himself up at his desk with a small coffee pot and his portable writing slope to work whilst he was at the Whittemore estate. His room had a small window that overlooked one of the decorative lawns that had a few sheep manicuring it. It looked like a pastoral painting, and was broken by the omegas running, four of them, girls all wearing simple day dresses, their shoes removed and their skirts hitched up to show their stockings and ankles most scandalously.

His reputation, he realised, was immaculate if they had put him in a room where he might overlook the place where the omega took their liberty. Unlike his uncle they obviously did not believe him capable of seducing one, or more likely, uninterested. He sat with his pen hovering over the inkwell watching them run, and wondering what had happened to his reputation that they considered him as bloodless as a beta priest.

A bride would certainly take some of his work off him, they could run his house and manage his social responsibilities as a Marquess. He was not entirely opposed to children either, but as he looked at the four girls who were playing on the lawn he decided none of those were interesting to his palate. The red haired girl seemed pretty enough, but more high maintenance that he cared for. She kept adjusting her gown and was the only one who had taken off the light jewellery and now that she had run her race she was fixing the pins in her hair.

The tall girl with the dark curls looked too much like Allison Argent for his own liking, for he despised Kate Argent and had since she had been his uncle's mistress. He could not have said what it was about her that he did not care for, but he never had, and the entire association was enough to rule out Vidama Argent from any consideration, and any unfortunate girl who resembled her. 

There was a tall, slim girl with Asian features, and long black hair. She wore a style that seemed unique to her, which featured a robe over a full skirt, and tied under her breasts with a thick elaborately patterned band that was fixed with a bow at her back. He considered her for a moment before deciding that although she was clearly a beauty such exoticism required care and if she were vain then they would not have much in common and it would be an uncomfortable and long marriage.

The fourth girl was too young to consider, but was dark haired and wore a gown better suited to a child. She would probably be coming out the following season.

He looked at the two boys, stretching now, to run, both dark haired, one perhaps a half head taller than the other, the one who he had seen walking with the red-haired girl, who was removing his coat and vest, his cravat long gone, as the other kicked off his shoes.

No, he decided, going back to his work, he was not well suited for marriage. When he was ready he would ask Laura to find him a bride, an omega worthy of his station, who would fill the holes in his life, manage his household and be sociable in his place.

Boyd, his manservant, knocked and opened the door, “afternoon tea is getting ready to be served, my lord," he said, “do you need help to dress?”

On the whole, Boyd was quiet and little given to displays of emotion, he rarely spoke and if he did it was because his duty required it. There were days in the London house, where he merely manhandled Derek into appropriate clothes or put his trays on his books to make sure he ate. Derek liked Boyd. He was good at his job and his quiet made him a comfortable companion indeed, so no if Derek ever went somewhere where he might possibly need a servant, or to beat a hasty retreat, Boyd accompanied him. Boyd was a tall, broad dark skinned black man, built like a blacksmith, but always perfectly turned out in Hale livery. When Derek's sister, Laura, had returned from her honeymoon to the Americas she had brought him with her. Beyond that Derek neither knew or cared for Boyd’s history, for he was sure if it was important that Boyd would tell him, and he would listen, but if Boyd didn’t want to talk about it then he wasn't going to push. Boyd’s life was his own, his job was making Derek's easier, and Derek trusted him to do it.

Maybe Boyd would find him a set of parents that would be amenable to Derek marrying their child. If Boyd chose them they would be well suited to Derek, or perhaps Boyd might arrange for him a lover. It had been a while, Derek considered than he had taken pleasure other than his hand. He had been too busy to even attend a brothel, but Mrs Palmerstone would be amenable to sending a beta girl or boy to lodge with him for enough money, and money was not an object.

It would be cheaper, he decided, than marrying.

However, the simple luxury of waking next to a person was not something he could easily buy.

The boys had flung themselves out on the grass, the taller one was just in his shirt, which was open to show his neck, although Derek could not see it clearly from where he was sat but it was clear, with no cravat or vest to hold it in place, the other had retained his vest and was sat up, legs open and his arms upon them. From this distance, Derek couldn't tell much about them and did not know why he could not stop his eyes from finding them. Their laughter, bright peals of it, would come up to the window, opened to let in the early summer air, and he would turn his gaze towards them.

He wondered if it was normal, like appreciating a fine piece of art in someone's house, they were beautiful and coveted, so why would he not look?

Getting out of his chair he decided that he would wear the blue coat for lunch, it was fine but not dressing for dinner fine, where the burgundy would be more appropriate, and told Boyd that. He was not very fond of afternoon  tea, on the whole, he did not have a sweet tooth and it was an excuse to serve many fancies in imitation of the French. It was a half meal of sandwiches on white bread, often with whipped cream and strawberries, cucumber or cress, tea, and a large selection of pastries. In his own house, high tea was a savoury pastry of meat and vegetables served with a strong black tea, but this was not his own house and he had to attend to make a good impression on his host.

The Whittemores were gauche, it guaranteed good tea at least. If they splashed their money around the way that they did, they would have bought expensive fresh black tea.

—

Afternoon tea had been laid out with the same care one would give to a dinner for the regent himself instead of afternoon tea, which meant the small occasional tables were groaning under the weight of sandwiches and decorated fancies on crisp white linens. There was, despite the early summer weather, a fire in the grate and everyone was sat on the velvet couches waiting on him. Derek had not thought that he was running late. The only notable absences were the omega, “nephew," Peter said patting the couch beside him, "I have saved you a seat next to our lovely hostess, she was just telling me about the trip they took to Brighton.”

"Oh," Derek said, he had spent the previous winter in Brighton because he liked the bracing sea air, and the fact it was quiet at that time of year, but he was barely a day's ride from the capital if there was a social engagement that caught his attention, such as the performance of a violin virtuoso the previous November. No one could accuse Derek of being sociable. “Were you invited to the Pavilion?” He asked. “It is a little garish to my taste, I do not understand why they combined both the Chinoiserie and the Indian styles.”

Mrs Whittemore's face took on a pinched look as if she had been insulted. “I understand few are invited there, I went to take the sea air and of course the modistes, my son, Jackson," she looked across the room to where her son stood, waving over his attention, “we went to Brighton, didn't we, Jackson, last autumn.”

Jackson Whittemore looked like an alpha who had been given the world to him on a silver platter, tall and handsome with a frame worn firm by exercise. His face was sculpted with high cheekbones, blue eyes and a pouting mouth. He was young, perhaps nineteen, but too pretty for London to truly accept him. The women who set fashion certainly didn't like the men to be prettier than them. Derek had been lucky to be a truly ugly teen, he hadn't become attractive until his early twenties when he had grown into his ears and cheekbones.

Jackson Whittemore looked entitled but did not have the title that people would forgive him the smaller arrogances. “Yes, mother," he said and it was an unpleasant drawl, before returning to his conversation with young McCall. Derek knew his father, a brusque man who was a little fond of wine, and could be argumentative when late in his cups, the entirety of his club knew that and did nothing about it because he could always stay there, bundled to his bed by the servants there before he picked a fight or challenged someone to a duel. Derek did not know his son, but there was gossip that he shared his father’s temper and tenacity.

Major Raeken was deep in conversation with Grand Marshal Stilinski, from their hand gestures, neither of the were holding the dainty tea cups that Mrs Whittemore had provided, Derek guessed they were either talking about the Marshal's omega son or the war. Sitting beside the marshal, with her tea sat demurely in her hands was Lady Catherine Vesey, who had been Kate Argent.

Kate Argent was a handsome woman, with dark blonde hair, and brown eyes, her skin was pleasantly ruddy from the sun and her mouth soft, but her chin was pointed and her nose looked as if it would have been if not for the touch of an angel in the womb pressing the point down to form a strange flat space, like a dimple. She was had only recently come out of full mourning and the black ribbons on her dress, the simple style of a beta, lacking the ornamentation and support of an omega’s gown, suggested she was still in half mourning so she could not be courted even if someone wanted to.

Derek didn’t like her, he could not have said what it was about her that made him uneasy, perhaps it was the approbation of his sisters, both of whom despised her, or the reassurance of his uncle that she was out for what she could get. This was not surprising many beta women in London were determined to marry well that they could have a comfortable life.

Kate's father, Gerard Argent, was in parliament and where Derek's alpha mother, Talia, had represented the Tory Party he was a whig despite having no title of his own, but he had had an omega son and a beta daughter with no alpha child to inherit a title had he had one. His son had married a penniless alpha emigre from France who had a minor title there, but clearly had done something to win over the omega, although Derek was sure he had heard tell that the marriage had been arranged, and they had been related or something, he wasn't sure as he didn't pay attention to gossip. He suspected the girl he had seen that he had thought looked like Allison Argent might actually have been the vidama in question.

“Brighton is such a gay town," Mrs Whittemore was continuing, “I imagine that’s why the prince is so fond of it, the sea air is so good for minor ailments but it is the company and society that makes the town so appealing.”

"I have always found it noisy and overcrowded,” Derek said bluntly. “I like to go in the winter when everyone else is in London.”

“But surely then there are no balls to attend or routs, and with whom will you play cards? You do not look like a man who would spend an entire season availing himself of the shopping?” Mrs Whittemore seemed quite surprised by this.

“I am a simple man, Lady Whittemore,” Derek said calmly, “I do not like much the noise and crush of the Brighton season, and London seems to me to be full of mothers throwing their marriageable children at me in the hope of winning my title,” Lady Whittemore made a polite laugh at that. “I am only here because my uncle requested that I attend, but mostly I am quite content with a mug of ale, a fire and a full belly.”

Sipping her tea Kate Argent smirked to herself, and Derek noticed it before she lowered her eyes she looked across to his uncle, and Derek wondered what was going on between them.


	4. in which the failure to listen to common wisdom causes an inauspicious meeting

Following the awkward high tea in which Derek learned everything he needed to know about Jackson Whittemore, that he was an ass, was made sure of the questionable nature of his uncle who remained an incorrigible flirt, that Lady Whittemore enjoyed the flirting whilst her husband grew more and more sour as he talked with the estate’s vicar who had also been invited. Derek had been caught in a few conversations, some speculation over the omegas who he had not met yet in the sort of leering conversation young alphas had.

Whittemore had given Derek permission to go riding so he had excused himself, quickly changed into something he would not mind covering in mud, or more specifically would not suffer a haranguing from Boyd about covering in mud, and went down to the stables where one of the stablemen, a burly man with thick stripes of hair on either cheek but that never joined to form a beard. He was wearing a rough homespun jacket and shirt, but there were gravy stains on his vest and a grey shapeless hat on his head which he snatched off his head when he saw Derek.

“M’lud," he said with a scraping bow, instead of the applicable my lord it was simply a term to use for all of the men he considered his betters, “I weren't expecting company.”

“Sir Jonathan said I could use one of his horses for a light ride,” Derek told the man as he looked through the stalls at the horseflesh on display. Most of the horses appeared sturdy, perfectly capable of riding, not for racing, but some light hunting. They were all in good health and very well maintained which he told the servant, for he believed good work should be recognised and praised. A compliment, his omega mother, Marianne, had drilled into him, cost nothing and reaped the greatest rewards.

One of the horses, however, was exceptional, a foul-tempered black Arabian that looked to have cost the price of a large house in London, and when Derek went to reach out to touch its forelock the servant stopped him, “tha’ss the devil’s own horse," he said, he spoke with a soupy Somerset drawl, “you watch for ‘im, ‘e bites sommat fierce.”

“Master Jackson?” Derek asked.

“Aye and it's thrown ‘im three times, he only lets me in to brush him if I give him peppermint sweetmeats afore and after. ‘E’s fine looking but e’s got a mean streak in him.”

“He's beautiful," Derek said and slowly held out his hand like he might to a strange hunting dog that might him. He was under no illusion that the horse might too, instead it snorted and stomped it's feet, pulling away.

“E only lets Miss Lydia near ‘im, ‘e does." The man said, “now what kinda ‘orse will you be wanting, m’lord, because it ain't gonna be the ‘ellbeast while I’m in the stables.”

Derek laughed and pointed out a fine bay with a high seat and a rather placid expression. He examined him thoroughly before he allowed him to be saddled and swung onto it's back without a block. “You don’t wanna be long," the groom said, “it smells like a storm, big’un at that.”

The sky was perfectly clear but Derek nodded to show he had heard, he had no intention of listening, before pushing the horse to take him out of the courtyard.

It was a fine afternoon in late May where the sun had gently warmed the earth so the air itself was pleasant before a cooler breeze struck up as he reached the treeline, he slowed the horse to a light canter and moved out towards the church tower he could see through the spruces. The horse took a certain pride in this and started nickering and tossing his head like a horse at a show, making Derek lean forward and pat the horse on the side of the neck as he laughed.

-

By the time Derek turned back the cool breeze had turned into the promise of a heavy storm in the next few minutes as a large black cloud blotted out the sun and the warm May day turned almost chill. Pulling up the collar of his greatcoat, something he had brought with him because he knew better than to go riding in May without one, even if it was only rolled up at the back of his saddle, he made for the largest spruce under which was a carpet of needles that the thick foliage would keep dry, where he could hide from the worst of the incoming rain.

He was not the only one to think of it.

By the time he had reached it the rain was coming down in thick splats that pressed his clothes to him.

Sitting against the bark of the tree was a young man, with is hair slicked down by the rain and wearing a simple black jacket and breeches Derek couldn't tell his gender, but he hobbled the horse loosely and moved over, “do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

The young man, barely more than a boy, certainly no older than twenty, nodded to him. “It came out of nowhere. I thought I'd take a quick stroll before going back to the house, and," he made a gesture with his hands to gesture the quick onset of the very heavy rain. The boy was the sort that would have made a handsome omega, a soft dark mouth like a blob of oil paint through which someone had tugged the pad of their thumb. His eyes were a brilliant brown that Derek suspected in some lights would be gold, and his skin, which was the colour of winter cream had dark beauty spots, natural ones not velvet stuck to powder to cover pockmarks, like someone had placed brown paint upon a brush and tapped it with his finger to leave speckles across his canvas. He was too delicate, long and slim, almost lanky, to be an alpha, who tended towards the broad shoulders and barrel waists, often developing keg shaped bellies in later life with legs like tree stumps to support them, it was betas and omegas who favoured long and lean, but Derek couldn't easily say which he was, with his clothes soaked to his skin he could have been anyone, and there was a book, which had clearly been squirreled away in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, an old fashioned thing with a high collar and fitted sleeves that would fit under the more flared coats that betas and omegas wore, but it was soaked to his skin and he was shivering a little under Derek's gaze.

“Here," Derek said, shucking off his leather greatcoat, it was a sturdy thing with a flared roquelaure and fell almost to his feet.

“Sir, you forget yourself," the boy said, stiffly. “It is improper for me to wear your clothes.”

“You're soaked to the skin, and I don't know how long we’ll be here, you might as well put on something warm, I would not want you to catch a chill, I assume you are here for the engagement," the boy nodded, “then you would not wish to miss it because you are abed with a cold.”

The boy took the coat then, draping it around his shoulders and pulling it tight. It had been a fair day but with the rain had come a chill, something that on a December day would be temperate and even pleasant, but in May was biting. He seemed to relax into it, taking deep breaths, before he put down his book and ran his hands through his wet hair, revealing ta clear, even forehead but not his ears, and the points which would reveal his gender. He was lovelier like that. “Are you an artist, sir, to be so attentive to my features?”

“No, I am merely wondering where it is that I know you from, for I am certain that we have not met.”

"I would remember such impertinence," the boy said, his tone was colder than the lashing rain. “If we were not trapped here by the weather I would require you to leave.” He lifted his book again.

“Unfortunately, my gifts do not extend to controlling the weather,” Derek said. The boy looked like he might, for a moment, smile, but instead, he cocked his head and then opened his book again. “What is it that you are reading?” Derek asked him, trying again to open a conversation as politeness demanded.

“A treatise on why people find it necessary to talk to others who are clearly engaged in a book." The tone was even and calm, but his expression was impish as if daring Derek to comment.

“Oh I am sure the book is too short for that," Derek answered, “for would it not be the work of a lifetime to discover why it is rude to read in polite company.” He was cold, damp and stuck under a spruce tree with someone determined to be offensive. He would react in kind.

“This is only volume one," the boy answered, “but I might have to avail myself of your library that I might continue my lessons, for I am certain a connoisseur like yourself will have entire shelves of books on manners.”

The boy's eyes were flashing. “You wound me, sir," Derek said, “that I might only have shelves in my library, and not a whole case, or even a wall dedicated to such.”

“Yes, such men would, of course, flaunt their wealth with something as useless as books of manners, when after all that which is appropriate might change from season to season.” The boy was impish, but Derek could not tell if his sauciness was an attempt at making love or general discontent. He had his legs stretched out in front of him on the carpet of orange-red-brown spruce needles, and his shoes looked fine for promenading but were not the sort that Derek would care to walk any distance in. They were certainly unsuitable for the weather, but if it had been fine when he set off he would not have needed to change to boots for the walk.

“But good manners are the foundation of success in life." Derek countered, “and it is not imprudent to make sure that one is successful.”

The boy laughed, it was a dark, dirty sound. “Then our definitions of success are very different, Mister," he left it open.

“Hale, Derek Hale,” Derek filled it in.

“Mister Hale, I would much prefer to be left alone with my reading, for I find these characters to be much better company, the rain looks to be easing, we will not be trapped here for much longer.” He shucked off the coat and balled it up beside him. “But your largesse was appreciated, no matter how improper. I do hope you will see it only as an act of Christian charity and not a way to compromise me.”

“I could not compromise your reputation, sir," Derek told him, “we are in broad daylight within sight of the house, and are you one who needs a chaperone.” The boy's hand moved to his hair which had been plastered down over his ears to reveal low omega points, “my apologies, Vidame, if you have found me forward, I was not aware.”

"Not forward," the boy, omega Derek knew now, said, “merely rude.” With that, he turned back to his book. Derek sat down on the opposite side of the tree, careful now that he could not be considered improperly close to the omega, and decided to wait out the sudden storm.


	5. in which coffee is served on the lawn

Supper was an intimate affair for the fifty or so people who were gathered at the party, mostly it was parents of the young omega and alphas who were friends of the affianced. The six omegas were ensconced between their parents with the exception of the Stilinski boy who had only one parent and was perched on his own at the end, and was talking to his father, with dark glances thrown in the direction of Derek himself.

“And what did you do to the poor boy, nephew,” Peter asked, leaning in, “that he looks at you like he is sucking upon a lemon?”

Derek looked up from his plate, “we were caught in the rain together." He told his uncle.

“I didn't think you had it in you,” he looked fit to clap his hands together in glee, “and you barely know the boy.”

Derek speared a piece of cucumber on his plate, “I did no such thing, we were caught under a spruce together by the rain, he wanted to read and I suggested he might be rude for it. He suggested that it was rude to interrupt him so, the rain ended before an accord could be reached.”

Peter could barely contain his joy, “and to think, you are making love at one of the most highly guarded Vidame in society, his father is second only to the King of Poland, it is a position that he holds for life, although I believe his nephew will inherit the formalities from him, his dowry is said to be in the area of seventy thousand pounds, so of course when he steps out he is usually surrounded by chaperones and guards. Even I would not make love to him.”

“He was without chaperone," Derek corrected his uncle, “and with the rain I had not known him to be Vidame, I believed him a cultured beta, perhaps wandering through the local estates, or the son of a vicar. I offered him my coat that he might warm himself.”

“Vidame do feel the cold," Peter said automatically and then his joy seemed to increase, “so not only were you trapped in close proximity to one of the most prized Vidame in society, despite his sauciness, but you offered him your coat, tell me," he lifted his wine glass, “did he accept?” Derek did not answer, but suddenly paid more attention to his plate. It was a fine piece of porcelain, and the meat and fresh vegetables were delightful, another sign of the Whittemore’s wealth and desire to use it. "Oh, how delightful," Peter crowed, “shall we arrange an autumn wedding?”

Derek reacted to that piece of teasing, "I hardly think his father will consider him compromised for an encounter that only two people were privy to and was no more scandalous than an act of Christian charity.”

“For seventy thousand pounds many would be swayed to such acts of Christian charity, I know a few men who would sacrifice more than an oilcloth coat to gain such a prize.”

"I have never cared to hear omega described as prizes, as if they have no value other than that they can gain in marriage, like they are nothing more than trinkets, like a fob watch hung on their vest,” Derek said angrily, and when he looked up the eyes of all the omega were upon him. He had said it a little louder than he had intended.

“Of course a vidama has more worth than that," the Whittemore boy, Jackson said, “they are strong breeders of children.”

A few of his bravos laughed nervously, but his affianced, the lovely Vidama Martin, who had been the red haired girl that Derek had seen when the carriage pulled up, slapped her knife down on the plate with a loud clatter, “I beg your pardon, sirs, I have had more than my fill, Father, I would like to take my coffee on the patio where the air is sweeter than among this crush.”

“What a wonderful idea,” one of the other omega, the young boy with the dark hair said standing, “where are our chaperones? we shall take our coffee outside, why the sun will be setting and it's such a fine evening.” The boy looked shy in his manner, looking like he might, at any point, be chastised for the suggestion and braced for it.

“Vesdames," Peter said, standing, “how right you are, the press in here has turned the air quite foul," he looked across at young Whittemore, “I am sure no one will mind if most of us move into the fresh air.”

Vidama Martin looked at Peter with a loosely concealed shock, as if he were the last person she expected to agree with her, but with the backing of a Lord, albeit as minor a one as Peter, the alphas all started to agree that taking their dessert, a subtlety of a masterwork, spice cake shaped and decorated to look like the house in which they were staying, out on the lawn as the day was fast fading and with the weather so fine it would be a delight to eat in the half light.

Tables were quickly set up, and blankets that those who preferred might lounge on the grass without ruining their evening finery. Just as the plates were cleared away the entire party moved out onto the terrace. Like everything else in the Whittemore estate it smacked of money.

Mrs Whittemore clapped to attract everyone's attention when the coffee was served, “we have both French and Turkish coffee.” She said, “Our Jackson gained a taste for it on his grand tour.”

Behind Derek Peter sneered, “the boy got sea sick not even out of Dover and his parents took him off the boat again, a grand tour," he laughed, “nothing grand about it, he gained his taste for Turkish Coffee at the club, ideally with a shot of brandy.”

Grand Marshall Stilinski moved over, "I find with cream and whiskey coffee almost becomes palatable, it is too bitter for my old palatte.”

"I find when it is served with cream and whiskey I ask the waiter to hold the coffee,” Peter said with a sort of camaraderie, “I hear your son was caught in the rain this afternoon, perhaps he is the one who could do with a shot of Irish coffee," he offered the Grand Marshall a sort of smirk, one that told of an old joke between old friends, “without the coffee of course.”

The Grand Marshall was a handsome man, with square features, thin blonde hair and rather brilliant blue eyes, a noted horseman and hunter he was the sort of man who was capable, and certainly the one that gamblers would favour in a duel if it came to one, and certainly one for a duel with Derek. His clothes were immaculately kept, and Derek had the weirdest intuition that it was the vidame that was responsible for keeping him that way, because the Marshall struck Derek as one who dressed for comfort by choice. He had been, as his title suggested, a soldier and was known as a crack shot. Derek couldn't help the way his mouth filled with spit, which he knew was a fear response. This man had every right to call Derek out for the mistake he had made.

“I understand that I owe you, my lord, some thanks for the care you took of my son this afternoon,” he said and there was a hint of a threat in it.

“I was unaware that it was as compromising as it was.” Derek wanted to curl up on himself and become as small as he could, ideally in the hope that he would leave the conversation entirely. “I was unaware of his title when I offered him my coat.”

“I would hope that others would make the same decision, I have never quite understood that single rule of propriety.” The Marshall held up his cup for the waiter to fill with more coffee.

“I understand it completely," Peter said, nursing his own coffee can, with a smirk. “An omega showing up wearing the clothes of an alpha would certainly rock the foundations of society, but I doubt an oil cloth coat would cause the same issue as a pair of pants.”

“I must admit if my son showed up wearing a pair of alpha breeches I might have to leave for the continent to escape a murder charge.” The Grand Marshall admitted, “but I concede that an oil coat cloth is a simple act of Christian charity and I cannot be anything but grateful, because my son is insufferable when he's sick, there is much whining and requests for aid, the servants suddenly become deaf when they hear him so much as sniffle. So offering him a coat when it was raining and he was already wet, it is not something that I would bully someone into marrying him for." He had a handsome smile, “but even with his dowry I do wonder if I am not going to have to find some alpha who will be compromised into marriage with him, simply put, I have spoiled him and he is something of a flibberty gibbet, he cannot hold a thought in his head but he has to learn everything about it, he will make someone a fine bride, but there will be days when they regret that decision." He emptied his coffee cup again, "I love my son dearly," he said, “but I am well aware of his shortcomings, and his behaviour has become the talk of society, there is little patience for someone like that in the highest circles. That he is also foreign does not aid in his appeal, those who are interested are the lowest sort, fortune hunters and French emigre who lost everything in the revolution and see nothing for him but his seventy thousand pounds and I do not care for that.”

"It is not something that I envy you.” Peter admitted, “Finding husbands for Laura and Cora was complicated enough and they knew to keep their mouths shut until the ring was on their finger, and then bullied their husbands into alphas that they liked better. “But at least some," he flicked his eyes over to Jackson who was sat with the McCall boy and the Lahey one, who had arrived with the McCalls, Mahaelani, an Alpha from the Americas, was leaning back with an expression on his face like he was completely used to such nonsense, “are no longer available.”

"It would be me hiding my boy on the continent," the Grand Marshall said, “my Stiles would not abide him, if he rapped him on the head and dragged him to Gretna I do believe instead of carrying him over the anvil he’d smash his head open on it.”

“If I was the father of an omega that had been taken by such an alpha I would offer him the hammer.” Peter admitted, “I cannot abide such bevaviour, the usual circles are aware of bad behaviour but money smoothes the way, he has access to the best places because he has close friends and a fat wallet, and those who are unlucky at the tables, but never in debt, those are always welcome.”

“Vidama Martin does not have a large dowry," The Grand Marshall said, “despite her beauty and wit, her parents have a lot of debt, it is not a surprise to the right circles that she might have been encouraged to accept his suit.”

“Does she like him?” Peter asked.

“My Stiles," the grand marshall said, “says that she might be planning a life of retirement in the country although he does prefer the town, or even Venice.” Peter smiled like the cat who had gotten the cream at that information, and Derek felt like an entire chill cross his body. “He did not care to see what his uncle would do, he had shown a fascination with the young omega and the knowledge that she did not care for the engagement they were there to celebrate meant that he was planning things.

Those plans would always work out in Peter's favour. They always did.


	6. in which Derek drinks to excess without noticing.

Once the early evening had fallen into night proper the gathered party moved into the drawing room where lamps and candles created a warm yellow glow. There were seats along the mirrored walls, between the windows, and a harpsichord, clearly, the latest thing from the continent to appease the Whittemores, beside the fireplace like the heat would not warp the wood and strings with long exposure, but it did look fine.

There was no band, clearly, the Whittemores had not done that yet, although Derek believed one had been hired for most of the week, but with omega available it was unlikely they would be short of entertainment, after all, the society Belles and Beaux were not considered accomplished unless they could play or sing.

People gathered in small clusters around the room, which was not large enough to be a ballroom but was too large for a salon. Rather than the plush armchairs that had been in the room where they had taken tea there were wooden high backed chairs, such as a restaurant might have at a table. This was not unusual, even in Almacks that such chairs lined the walls for those who did not wish to dance.

This room would be perfect for an intimate waltz but not much else, but for a hunting party to drink after dinner or the omega to wait whilst the alphas went to smoke cigars and drink brandy, it was perfect. Tonight there were no cigars but a waiter walked around with the carafe of brandy for whoever wanted it. The omega, in a quiet cluster around the harpsichord, were not offered. Omega on the whole did not react well to hard liquor, it made them sick very quickly.

The six of them were gathered with the chairs tugged into place so that they faced each other, and the tall boy, the Grandmarshall's son, was waving his hands and almost throwing his entire body into his discussion, every expression was worn on his entire face and nearly throwing himself from his chair with his laughter.

“Beautiful isn't he?” Peter said coming across with two more cups of coffee, handing one to.

“Exhausting," Derek answered, "I am getting tired merely watching him.”

Peter raised an eyebrow but said nothing, although Derek expected a crude comment, instead sitting and taking a mouthful of his coffee, it was laced with whiskey, almost enough to make him cough, as Peter called over the Grandmarshall to continue their conversation, “my nephew was just saying that your son seems exhausting.”

The grand marshall just snorted a laugh, “sometimes I wonder if I bleed coffee to keep up with him. I am not sure if I will be pleased or devastated to lose him to a husband, the embassy shall certainly feel empty.”

Jackson Whittemore cut off any further discussion by standing up and walking over to the cluster of omega, Derek didn't miss the look of distaste that crossed lovely Vidama Martin's face. He said something quiet enough that Derek could not catch it sat where he was, but then Vidame Stilinski stood up, “I can play," he said brushing past Jackson almost close enough to touch if Jackson had not stepped back, “if you turn the pages for me, Corey.”

"I asked for a song," Jackson said, his voice raised to match Vidame Stilinski’s volume. He was clearly asking Lydia to sing for those gathered like she was a stage performer and not his bride to be.

“And if I play this," Vidame Stilinski slapped his hand down on the polished wood with a bright smile, “you’ll get one.”

Vidama Martin stood up, “it's alright, Stiles," she said, “I can sing.”

The song was sweet and Lydia’s voice pleasantly smoky, but the tone of the song did not match the tone of the room, she sang of a sparrow meeting a canary and although they fell in love the sparrow would not stay in the canary's golden cage, rather suffering hardships than a life of captivity. Jackson's face screwed up but there was a polite round of applause. He had asked her to sing, and she had.

Taking a mouthful of wine from the glass on the harpsichord Stiles, Stilinski's boy, stood up, "if I might, ladies and gentlemen, I feel the urge to follow such a wonder with one of my own.”

Derek suspected this song was to further infuriate Whittemore who it was clear none of the Omega liked. Derek suspected it had a lot to do with his superior attitude, but spurred on and in front of his dandy friends, there wasn't much he could do about it. He wondered if Lydia would suffer for this in private with cutting words.

The song Stiles sang must have been in his native language, for it sounded like gibberish to Derek, but it was jaunty, compared to the slow threnody that Lydia had sung, and at random intervals, both Peter and the grand marshall, who spoke the language he was singing in would snort out laughter. Peter, noticing Derek was no more aware than everyone else what Stiles was singing said “it's a bawd about an omega who goes to war in a pair of orange pantaloons, every time he wins a battle he is asked why he keeps winning and he credits it to his orange pantaloons, removing, another item of clothing. It's sung in the lowest sort of taverns, often by a female beta with fake omega ears who removes the clothes with the singer until they're left in only their scandalous orange pantaloons.”

It was not the sort of song saved for a hunting party amongst the lower nobility of the English elite, and hearing it, knowing the entire reason for this song was Jackson's rudeness Derek snorted a laugh too.

When he finished Vidama Yukimura stood up, settling her glass down upon a kerchief placed on the harpsichord and sang sweetly in her own language, her voice sounding like the trilling of the canary in Vidama Martin's song. It was pleasant enough but strange to Derek's ear, and he could appreciate both the strangeness it had and it's beauty. He would need a long time to train his ear to know if she sang well or badly, but her parents, Lady Yukimura gave a few low claps of applause causing the vidama to blush brightly before sinking back into her skirts on the chair.

After that the conversation lulled back into the low hum of different groups talking about different things, Lady Catherine Vesey was now talking to the young bucks, her eyes moving between her pretty young niece and McCall although she was primarily speaking to Whittemore, and now and again she would say something and look at Peter then laugh in a way that seemed design to show off the swell of her breasts under the elaborate lace trimmed stomacher she wore, as Peter maintained conversation, bright and witty with the grand marshall.

Derek emptied his cup and accepted the brandy from the footman, then when it was gone, a second one when the omega left, going towards their beds although everyone else remained about. Derek didn't notice how often the footman refreshed the brandy in his glass until he went to stand up and the world swirled about him as if he stood on the deck of a ship caught in a whirlpool. “Uncle Peter," he said, "I think I must abed.”

—

Boyd awaited him in his room, wonderful, dutiful Boyd, who heaved a deep sigh as he put down his book, slipping a silk marker between the pages, before depositing it into a hidden pocket in his coat, and attending to dressing his very inebriated master to bed. This included, with much familiarity and trust, slapping Derek's hands away from trying to undo his cravat so he didn't strangle himself.

“I think my uncle intends me to marry," Derek told his valet.

“Really?” Boyd's sarcasm made it's way through the brandy, as he helped him from his jacket, “I am quite certain he intends for you to leave this hunting party with a betrothed and that he might have already decided which it is to be.”

“That sounds right,” Derek fell back on the bed and lifted his foot that Boyd might liberate him of his boots, “he keeps talking to the grand marshall, I would not be surprised if he aims me like an arrow at the Vidama Martin that he might seduce the Grandmarshall's son.”

“As long as it isn't the Argent girl," Boyd said, “you will be insufferable if family get-togethers involve her aunt.”

“Horrid woman," Derek agreed, “poor Vidama Argent will have nowt but shit trying to find a husband," the drink was catching in his speech, “there isn't a dower large enough to put up with a lifetime of Kate Argent.”

“In circumstances like that I am glad I am neither of high society or unmarried, my Erica might be a hellcat but she is mine, and I do not fear she might slip an ice pick in my ear to inherit my wealth.”

Derek laughed, “We all know she used a pillow." He held up the other leg so Boyd could pull off the other boot, which he did with a grunt.

The bed was comfortable, with a feather mattress, so clearly the best that the Whittemores had to offer a guest, and Boyd had already tugged back the counterpane and placed a hot brick between the sheet and blankets so the bed would be warm for his master. Boyd himself would have a cot in the servant's quarters and if he was lucky it would be near the fire. In Derek's own house Boyd had a large set of quarters with a small sitting room which he shared with his wife, Erica, who was Derek’s laundress.

Warm and comfortable he was prepared to go to bed still wearing his vest, shirt, and pants, if Boyd had not harried him into undressing down to just his shirt, he would have gone to sleep as he was. When Boyd was done with him, his pocket watch had been set in its stand with the alarm set for ten, and he had visited his chamberpot, which had been changed, and left in his stockings and shirt before he collapsed into his bed, banging his leg on the hot brick, before he pushed it from his bed letting it land with a heavy thump on the carpet beside the bed.

Drunk, with a full belly he quickly fell asleep and dreamt.

His dream was something rather unusual for him, he did not often remember his dreams but this one had the pleasant lassitude of too much brandy and warmth and comfort, he was lying a bed, the bed was draped with curtains, lined with white linen, and piled high with pillows, he was wearing pants and a shirt, although it was pressed up around his collarbone, and draped over him, his own shirt falling open down his arm, was Vidame Stilinski, Stiles.

He wore jewellery, including a bangle around his ankle with a bell that jingled as he laughed, his ass pressed against Derek’s crotch, held in place with a hand, as Stiles, lain across him, with his legs crossed and pressed against Derek's bent knee, as he fed Derek strawberries dipped in sugar and slices of orange drizzled with honey, letting Derek lick the sweet stickiness from his skin. There was a ring on Stiles’ hand, a large garish thing with a black pearl in the heart of it, surrounded by small pink sapphires, and there were chains, with light shining charms strung from it, through his hair. He was beautiful, a luscious and pleasant seductive _houri_ , complicit in this scene, and Derek, with his other arm folded under his head, chased the taste of mild salt on the omega’s skin. He was hard, pleasantly rubbing that hardness into the soft skin of the boy's ass and thighs.

It was a pleasant dream and one he was loathe to leave when morning came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia's song
> 
> The snow was very plentiful,  
> And crumbs were very few  
> When a weather-beaten sparrow  
> Through a mansion window flew.  
> Her eye fell on a golden cage;  
> A sweet love song she heard,  
> Sung by a pet canary there,  
> A handsome yellow bird.  
> He said to her: "Miss Sparrow,  
> I've been struck by Cupid's arrow.  
> Would you share my cage with me?"  
> She looked up at his castle,  
> with its ribbon and its tassel,  
> and in a plaintive tone said she:
> 
> "Good-bye, little yellow bird.  
> I'd rather brave the cold  
> On a leafless tree  
> Than a prisoner be  
> In a cage of gold.
> 
> The spoiled and petted yellow bird  
> Could scarce believe it true  
> That a common sparrow should refuse  
> A bird with blood so blue.  
> He told her the advantages  
> Of riches and of gold.  
> She answered that her liberties  
> For gold could not be sold.  
> She said "I must be going."  
> But he cried "No, no, its snowing,  
> And the wintry winds do blow.  
> Stay with me, my little dearie,  
> For without you 'twould be dreary."  
> But she only sighed "Ah, no."
> 
> "Good-bye, little yellow bird.  
> I'd gladly mate with you -  
> I love you, little yellow bird,  
> But I love my freedom, too.  
> So good-bye, little yellow bird.  
> I'd rather brave the cold  
> On a leafless tree  
> Than a prisoner be  
> In a cage of gold."


	7. in which the lovers share a breakfast and Vidame Stilinski is shown at industry

Breakfast was a quiet affair, most of the previous night’s revelers preferring to stay abed, so he ate alone in the breakfast room, a bright sunny room with comfortable chairs and a large bookcase. There was a standing frame in the corner with a large tapestry tacked to it so that Lady Whittemore might, at her leisure, work upon it, rather than the smaller hoop frame that Derek’s own sisters preferred. Both Laura and Cora despised embroidery so when they did work it was small details on handkerchiefs that they did because they were expected to. They had the technical ability that they could list it as an accomplishment but they would much rather do anything for it.

He was sharing the room with Vidame Stilinski, who was sat with his chaperone, a dark skinned woman who introduced herself as Madame Morrell, he was sat, occasionally sipping from a cup of chocolate, doing something involving lace that was draped across his hand and two shuttles, one of which hung loose, and his fingers worked quickly, moving the other shuttle in a careful dance that Derek did not understand, all he knew was that he moved quickly and created lace and picots. Derek had no idea what it was but it was so soothing to watch he could have done so all day.

“Perhaps," Vidama Stilinski said, “you would be best to contact Mr. Gainsborough, I am sure he would happily paint my efforts that you can stare longer, you could then gaze upon me when it takes your fancy.”

"I beg pardon for the presumption." Derek said, “I am merely dazzled by the skill of what you are doing, I have never seen it's like, but what you have produced is lovely.”

Vidame Stilinski boggled for a moment, “I am tatting lace," he said finally, “it is a common skill for omega where I was born, it is not unusual there for the gathered noblesse to be sat tatting during balls etc. Apparently, my mother refused to dance with my father until she had finished her ring, and that was why he doted on her.” He flushed, and looked across to Madame Morrell as if looking for direction but she did not mind. “I had not realized that I would be sharing the salon this early, especially after the revelry last night, so I thought I would take my work with me," even as he spoke his hands danced with the shuttle.

From his dream, Derek could remember the taste of the boy's fingers in his mouth.

“Then my apologies for I had no intent to disturb your work." Derek told him, “what you have created is very lovely, I would lack the delicacy for such detail.”

"It's practice." Vidame Stilinski said, lowering his eyes at the praise like he was unused to such. His hands slowed, and the lace spread across his lap, he even stopped for a moment, then took a sip of his watered wine, licking his full lips. “I have been tatting since I was a small child.”

“Then the time was well spent, your work is astonishing, I had known that lace was expensive but had not considered the art involved in it, I now regret investing Heathcote’s machine that it might question the amount of work involved.” He was not usually given to effusive praise but watching how the vidame moved the shuttle quickly and twisted the fabric in his hands to create this beautiful mesh of knots and loops. “Can I ask what it is you are making or am I presuming?”

The vidame flushed again, the blush crawling up his neck to his softly pointed ears, and Morrell, sitting knitting in silence, smiled to herself. “It is a glove, sir,” he held it up to show the tube that would frame the hand, “for Vidama Martin to wear to her wedding.”

“It is beautiful and she should be proud to accept it if you were not a vidame I would ask you to make some for my sisters, for I do think they would appreciate them.”

"I did not know you had sisters." The Vidame told him.

"I have two," Derek told him, “Laura and Cora, both are married but neither have any practical accomplishments other than being able to embroider their initials, neither had the patient to learn when there was hawking and riding to do.”

“My father did not trust me with the hawks," the vidame said, “he worried that I would startle the bird and they would claw out my eyes in revenge.”

“They are very lovely eyes and I am indebted to your father for preserving them that I might look upon them.” Derek was unused to flirting but he was still the nephew of Peter Hale who was well known to be silver-tongued. The soft flush on the boy's cheeks became a bright red and he bit his lips. Morrell needles flickering as she moved from one needle to the next, she was working in the round on three needles, using the fourth to make the stitches, smiled to herself. Derek knew that if he went too far Morrell would silence him, but she seemed fond of him and enjoying this simple flirtation.

Vidame Stilinski's hands fell still at his waist, there had been a piece of blue cotton stretched across his lap that he might better see what he was doing, as well as creating a cradle for his work. His hands seemed strong, a man's hands, when Genevieve had sat with her hands in her lap they had looked like a pair of doves, but the Vidame’s hands were long and thin, hard-knuckled and capable, and Derek found his eyes falling to those hands, thinking of the taste of citrus flavoured honey on his fingertips. After that his light breakfast of buttered bread and fruit preserve was tasteless.

“You flatter me, sir," the vidame said, the words sounding strange on his tongue as if he was unused to talking to alphas who flattered him. “I am not used to such, for you have spoken to me twice now and not once mentioned my dower.” There was a tone of steel in his speech that time and although his mouth was soft his eyebrows were drawn close. “I am not even sure of your name for we have never been introduced formally, although I saw you in conversation with my father and Lord Peter, a man whose acquaintance would not promote any suit you made against me.”

“I am Lord Roderick Rutherford Hale, Marquess of Wessex, Lord Peter is my uncle.” Derek said, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Maciej Stilinski," the boy said, lifting his shuttles again, one fell to his lap whilst the other was taken between finger and thumb to restart his work, “son of Grand Marshall Stilinski, everyone calls me Stiles, but I am well acquainted with your uncle, I have known him since I was a child, but he has never introduced us, do you not find that curious?”

“Not at all," Derek said, “my uncle works for the Home Office, I do not, so he works in the same circles as your father, where I am more of a homebody, I do not care for the dazzle of London, I find it boring and rather artificial, people gather to create false images of themselves in the knowledge those around them do the same and for any excuse to tear each other down.”

Stiles tilted his head like a dog trying to understand it's master, before he pursed his lips into a pout, “astute, sir," he agreed, “But doesn't that include you also.”

"Of course," Derek said, sitting back with his coffee can in his hands, watching Stiles over the rim of the cup, “which is why I do my best to avoid it, I can't bear that much self-introspection.”

Despite himself, Stiles laughed, “does it bother you to spend so much time upon yourself?” Madame Morrell seemed amused.

“Certainly, I am far too busy, it's why I keep a man about, so he can spend the time upon me, I pay him handsomely for the service, it is amazing how much time his work has freed for me, I finally got to read that book by Byron that everyone was talking about.”

“And how did you find it?” Stiles asked.

"Much like the man himself, overblown for very little gain." Derek offered the boy a conspirator's grin, “but now I, at least, can talk about it in conversation.”

“He walks in beauty like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies.”

“And all that’s best of dark and bright, meet in his aspect," Derek paused before finishing the line, “and his eyes.”

Th e blush came back to his eyes, “I do wonder, sir, if you are not returned to flattering me.”

“This time," Derek said, leaning forward, "I am flattering you, and not the skill with which you work the shuttle in your hands.”

The boy's blush was adorable and Derek found he wanted to keep him blushing, but before the omega could answer the door opened and Jackson Whittemore came in. He looked harried as if he had just woken and was not yet ready for the day. The hunt was not scheduled to start until after nuncheon at noon, so the men, who would be stalking the deer would not be expected to rise for at least an hour, but Whittemore looked to have been roused against his will, for the way he stumbled straight to the coffee carafe, and poured himself a large cup.

“What's that, Vidame? You having to work for your supper?”

Stiles grinned, “I thought I would work on a shroud for your romantic interests when your mistress discovers you are married. I have heard that she is not one to share.” He answered, “and Lydia herself is jealous of those who adore her, she does not care to share, and of course, with your ego, you would need something elaborate and beautiful that I have no issue spending the time.” He spread his hands to show off the work, “does it meet your standards?”

Jackson looked across and saw Derek sat there and it stilled his comment, “it is well that you are talented in that, vidame," he managed to make the title sound like an insult, “for I doubt anyone will hunt that manner.”

“Possibly," Stiles answered without flinching at the insult, seeming to be more used to them than he was to flattery and compliments. “But I did not need my parents to buy me a spouse.”

Jackson jutted out his jaw and squared his shoulder, “it is a good job you are not joining us on today’s hunt in case an accident happens.”

“Is that a threat, Jackson," Stiles asked, “I am sure my father would be delighted to hear of such, considering how many of your father’s investments would collapse without his support. I am here for Lydia, not you.” Stiles said with a certain finality, “are you going to eat something, I would hate for you to be weak in the hunt, after all, as you said, accidents happen.”

Jackson took one of the pastries from the table before he left the room in a bad temper, slamming the door behind him, and Stiles went back to his tatting, much more angrily now, as Morrell spoke to him in low tones, enough that Derek could tell that she was talking but not enough that he could hear what it was she said.

“Are the happy couple not happy?” Derek asked when the boy had calmed down.

“Lydia liked him well enough, but her parents have debts and the Whittemores have money, I should not carry gossip.” The evidence was obvious to Derek, Lydia had liked him until her choice was taken, and then she took what resentment she had out on him. She resented Jackson because he represented the fact she was to be married against her will.

Derek understood that. He had been so firm in making sure that both of his sisters knew that they were capable of choosing their own spouses, even if it was not commonly done in society. He finished his coffee, putting the can on the table before he looked across at the bread and dripping he had asked the servants for.

“Will you be hunting, sir?” Madame Morrell asked.

“No," Derek answered, "I do not care to hunt in a party, I might stalk deer in my land in Northumberland, but I find it is merely a way for alphas to preen and show themselves off to best advantage to other alphas, it is like cats trying to make themselves seem larger to scare off those who might challenge its power.”

Stiles laughed, “it is awful when it is done to catch your attention," he said, “have you seen the birds in the London museums, like peacocks flaring their tail to impress the peahen.”

“I can certainly fetch a coat from my uncle if you would prefer me to flare my tail.” Stiles blushed again, but then he lowered his head back to his work, with his ears glowing red at the side of his head.


	8. in which there is a visit to Bath and a solicitor who lives there

After completing his coffee Derek excused himself from the breakfast room and prepared to take a brisk stroll around the estate to better aid his digestion when Madame Morrell hurried after him. Madame Morrell, who was a slim black woman with heavy beta skirts moved a lot faster than he would have credited her with. “My Lord Hale," she said as he came to a stop by the large double doors to the gravel patio. “Might I have a moment of your time?” She was smoothing out her skirts as she stood in a nervous gesture, “you said that you had no intent to join the others in hunting, was that correct?”

Derek told her that it was true. He had no care for organized hunts and had only accompanied his uncle because otherwise such would be untenable.

“My charge and Vidama Martin have expressed an interest in going to Bath to take the water, and although myself and Mr. Parrish, whom the grand marshall has hired to watch over his son as a companion and guard, will be accompanying us, the Grandmarshall would much prefer if an alpha accompanied us as well, he has business with Sir Jonathan or he would accompany us himself, would I be presuming too much, my lord, that I might request that you accompany us?”

Derek considered it, he had had no real plans for the day, and Bath was less than an hour carriage ride away, and even accounting for traffic in the city itself, it would certainly be easy enough to go to the city and back for supper. It was even possible that there were some aspects of business he could take part in. He could take the opportunity to buy gifts for his sisters, and there were some books that he wished to read that he had intended to spend part of the afternoon reading, for his uncle had made him leave his ledgers behind in London.

It would also mean spending at least some of the day with the young omega who had been pleasantly charming.

As he ran the options over in his mind he was surprised to find that Madame Morrell was already thanking him and that he had, without noticing already accepted. She gave him the details of their journey, that they would be leaving within the hour as Vidama Martin was yet to eat and would become dyspeptic if asked to eat within the carriage. There would be just the four of them, Derek, Stiles, Vidama Martin and Madame Morrell to chaperone.

—-

Vidame Stilinski was dressed for the day when he met them at the carriage. He was wearing pale yellow corduroy knee-breeches, with matching jacket with embroidered red anemones down the lapels, over a white silk vest, and soft lace cravat. His buttons were, unusually for such a coat, polished brass, instead of fabric colored wood, and he had a small silk bag the straps of which he had over one shoulder. Vidama Martin was wearing a pale green, embroidered with matching anemones, and her lovely hair was gathered into a braided crown on her head. She had a bag, not unlike that of her companion, but there was a blonde man behind her, fussing with things that he was putting into the pocket in the door of the Grandmarshall’s carriage.

The beta was introduced as Mr. Parrish and Madame Morrell explained that he would be sitting up beside the driver, just in case. She didn't say what it was in case of, but the man made sure of a pair of pistols and a rifle beside the cabin seat. He asked Derek a few pertinent questions and made sure he knew how important the safety of the two omega was to him, he had the manner and bearing of a soldier and Derek was more than happy to pass over the security to him, for although he knew his way around a flintlock he was a hunter, not a fighter. He was capable with a rapier, if it came down to it, and could hold his own with a knife, but he was not a scrapper as much as someone taught to basically take care of himself if he was caught in a bad situation about the London nights, if he did not take a hansom from his club to the house, where he might be attacked by a cutpurse or a cutthroat looking for money for gin, but if they were beset by highwaymen he would be much happier aiding Mr. Parrish.

It made him wonder why Madame Morrell had even invited him when Mr. Parrish seemed so very capable. He quickly learned it was because the atmosphere between Vidama Martin and Vidame Stilinski was very uncomfortable, and it offered Madame Morrell something of an ally.

Vidame Stilinski pulled out his tatting and with a few angry sighs began manipulating the shuttle and thread, Vidama Martin using a footstool to create a table of her lap had an embroidery box that she put on the bench beside her and started with her needlework. From the pocket of her apron, Madame Morrell pulled out her knitting. All of a sudden the simple act of reading did not seem so likely.

It was not unusual for those in a long carriage journey to pass the time at some industry or another. Derek liked to read and Peter preferred to continue his correspondence, often in many languages, with a traveling writing slope on his knee, so the image of the three of them working was not unusual, the distinct sense of unease, however, was unique.

The carriage was trundling along at a fast clip when Vidame Stilinski, Stiles, finally started to talk and broke the awful silence. “It is not my fault that Jackson was short with you this morning.”

Derek thought that that might be stretching the truth, but he knew better than to look up from the page of his book he had read six times now.

“You just had to needle him, didn't you.” Lydia said, “and every time you do he is in a snit for the whole day, and you know that he considers me already his, his bad temper soured my entire breakfast, and I know that when I return it will be to his continued mood. You have to poke the bear, simply because it is there.”

“Mr. Whittemore was in an unpleasant mood this morning," Derek offered hoping to break up the animosity some. “He entered the room prepared to pick a fight with someone, the Vidame just happened to be there.”

“My Lord, I neither asked for nor require your opinion on this matter. Stiles knows that if he pokes at Jackson, no matter how foul the temper he starts with, that it I that suffers, to the extent that I will have to spend the day taking the waters in Bath in case he crosses my path. Perhaps you would think it best if you remained quiet when we discuss this.” Lydia Martin may have been beautiful, but she had the manner of a scalded cat.

Beside her, Stiles had begun to chew on the end of his cravat, and when Derek noticed it he discovered that it drew Morrell’s gaze too and she made a slight, disappointed sound, rearranged her knitting into one hand and tugged it from his mouth. “Don't do that," she chided with a sort of easy familiarity that suggested it would be back in his mouth long before they arrived in Bath.

Derek went back to his book and decided to politically ignore everything that would go on.

—-

 

Bath was a large center of society in the southwest, gathered around the Roman baths that had been built there. Bath society, lacking the political clout of London, with Parliament, was more militaristic with the wives and widows of many Militia leaders and soldiers, because of this it had as many shops of fripperies as London, but lacked the same quality of bookstores or cafes. Derek, like most lords, kept a solicitor there. His primary solicitor, Deaton, was based out of London, but he kept a few farms in Somerset, mostly for apples, which were overlooked by Mr. Harris.

Mr. Harris was an odious man who agreed to meet him in a tearoom over lunch to discuss any queries that he had about the estate and an approach that had been made in regards to the purchase of some land he had near Middlesborough, but first he had to pass the rest of the morning with the two Vidames.

Lydia had a snide aside in every store as she checked out ribbons and looked at bonnets. She spread lace over her fingers and made a comment, and would lay it out over fabric whilst saying something else and through it, all Stiles just pulled another face, his entire body seemed given to making these gestures, pulled out his coin purse and paid for what she wanted.

He left them with Parrish and Morrell at the baths with the promise to return soon and he would have at least one glass of the horrid water, extracted from Lydia who believed in sharing her misery before going to his solicitor’s office and sitting down with the man. If there was one thing that his title ensured him it was that he never had to wait.

The deal in question was one which his solicitor had been approached about, a seemingly worthless piece of land in Northumberland was under speculation by a currently unknown buyer who wished to use it as a hunting estate, and Harris, who was aware of the area’s costs and that it was currently uninhabited couldn't understand why he refused to sell it, but was perfectly prepared to rent it as he had, as far as Harris was aware, no reason to keep it.

Derek was polite in explaining that he could make the decision to keep it for whatever reason popped into his head after all he was the landowner, but because Harris had several years of good work under his employ he explained that the land in question was over a large potash mine that actually covered several estates in the area, and which Derek had people mining, so although the land itself was uncultivated and the potash extracted from a neighbouring area, the actual potash was there, so if the speculator wished to rent the property he would be delighted to do so, but if he sold it then it meant that the entire mining operation would suddenly lose it's profits, although not it's costs, to the new owner. Something, Derek guessed, that they intended him to not know and sell because of it.

Something about Mr. Harris’ expression hinted to Derek that Harris knew that and had hoped that Derek had not, nevertheless a moment’s speculation caused by Derek's own bad temper was not reason enough to dismiss the man from his service. He would learn from this that Derek, unlike many of the _haute ton_ , actually cared where his money came from.

Making sure that Mr. Harris knew that Derek would tolerate no more of this foolishness, as Derek saw it, and that he was aware of the value of all his land, no matter how insignificant it looked, and in most cases knew the names of his tenant farmers. Just because the men of his caste were usually feckless fools who left this to their solicitors did not mean Derek was one of them.

So he was feeling rather proud of himself as he left the office and walked across Bath. There were a few children playing in one of the streets with a ball, kicking it about between themselves, each of them keeping their hands behind their back by holding a stick which served to make the game more difficult for the older children, but the younger two did not. There was a fruit stand nearby and feeling rather successful he purchased a dozen oranges, probably grown in a nearby hothouse, and with a grin told the shopgirl to give one to each of the children in the game, from a mysterious benefactor, and the girl nearly swooned when he smiled, reassuring his faith in himself.

A second stop into a large general store had him restock those things he had been meaning to for some while but never really had the time. He bought a few nutmegs, putting one in the small wooden grater he kept in his pocket, a new vinaigrette for his sister who it seemed was determined to collect them, but this one was made of a cheap base metal plated to look like gold but could be worn on a chain from a pocket. He bought a new mustard ball, as his own was almost completely used, although the Whittemores were more than willing to have the condiment placed in bowls many inns were not so thoughtful.

He decided to get little gifts for the two omega traveling with him, and a little something for the chaperones, for largesse, was something drilled into him. He was comparing the small skeins of embroidery silk, with no idea if they were good quality or not, just checking the colors when the shopkeeper, a beta woman in her late forties approached him. “Begging your pardon, sir," she said, “but I noticed you were looking at the silk hanks," Derek agreed that he had, “well, this might seem off, and I apologize if I am presuming, but do you know someone who is accomplished."

Derek told the woman that he did, “a customer approached me about ordering a rather expensive item, leaving a deposit, unfortunately, circumstances meant that it was never picked up, I was wondering if it was something that I might show you if it might be to your interest.”

Derek told her that there was no reason why not, certainly, because it was unlikely he would purchase the item regardless, and he had time to spare. She returned with a small paper box which she opened to reveal a tatting shuttle that appeared to be made of fine porcelain in the typical Wedgwood blue, with a pastoral design painted in white upon it. The central post was a blue and purple mineral that looked like it might be bluejohn. He wasn't sure that it was a usable item but it was certainly striking. He had a moment of thought where he saw the device in Stiles’ hands, moving back and forth over and under the thread, and agreed to the purchase without even questioning the price.


	9. in which Derek plays cards against the Grand Marshall

Derek returned from Bath with Vidame Stilinski's head resting on his shoulder, upon a square of muslin that Madame Morrell placed there when the boy fell asleep, worn out by the day, and drooling on the cloth placed there. Vidama Martin sat winding the hanks of silk unto wooden bobbins from her work box, stuffed into the door pocket of the carriage, with occasional huffs of bad temper and swallows from a bottle she was keeping beside her on the bench. Derek finally got the opportunity to read his book, barely distracted by the soft snores of the omega using him as a pillow, with a fur draped over his lap in lieu of a blanket. It was well known, after all, that omega felt the cold.

He left the carriage and after helping Vidama Martin and Madame Morrell down merely stood out of the way but ready to catch him as Vidame Stilinski managed it with a collapse of limbs more suited to a spider leaving a hole than a society beau trying to descend from a doorway.

The omega were immediately whisked away in a crowd by the other four omega, arms looped through theirs and pulling them away to a game of lawn chess being played between Peter and young Whittemore, with the dark haired omega, Vidama Argent, explaining that Peter appeared to be toying with him and it was the most fun thing, whilst the youngest of them, a girl yet to be presented to society, Vidama Argent, with a shawl crossed over her stomacher to be tied at her waist at the back, waving her arms and saying they were playing for forfeits. Derek had no time for this and excused himself.

He was stopped on the way to his room, where he intended to change his book and his jacket, for the one he was wearing was a little too heavy for the day and he was over warm, not because Madame Morrell had been a little slow for the receiving cloth or because the one he was wearing smelled like Vidame Stilinski’s perfume, lilac and crushed rose petals with a swirling amber and bergamot that was most pleasant, by Lady Vesey.

Derek knew Kate before she was married when she was angling to be Lady Hale by seducing his uncle, who was not only wise to her schemes but determined to exploit them simply because he despised her father. “My lord," she said with a slightly mocking curtsey, one he was not due as a simple marquess, “I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”

“I am in something of a hurry,” Derek said, he was as he vastly wished to visit his chamberpot and she was blocking the stairs.

"I shall not keep you, it is just," she seemed to simper, a thing he hated in people, pretending to defer simply because he was entitled, "I am concerned that your uncle might be aiming his cap at my niece and I was hoping that you might help my efforts to protect her from him.”

“I can assure you, madame," Derek said bluntly, “that my uncle has no intent towards your niece, I can be absolutely sure of it, although I know he has plans for this trip I do believe he intends that I marry, and I shall not be seeking your sister’s approval for such a match. I have not even been introduced to the girl and I am happy to continue in this vein.”

“I saw her with him," Kate continued, “she placed something in his pocket and I would like to know what it was.”

“Then ask her, madame," Derek said, “knowing my uncle it was something that she had dropped and did not want to raise a fuss about its loss or his act of kindness. It would not do for his reputation to be sullied by a good act.”

“I am worried, sir, your uncle's reputation is well deserved and I had heard that you are a good man.”

"I am merely a man," Derek corrected her, “and one that is being held for much longer than he cares to be, when I said that I was in a hurry I did not jest.”

“My pardon, my lord," she said, but there was nothing of penitence in her tone, “I had hoped you might help me.”

“If you are so concerned about Peter’s behavior then you must speak to Peter if you make it clear that he has no hope of winning the vidama's favor he will stop. He is not one to linger where he is not wanted.”

He went to push past her but she used her skirts to prevent it. “I was hoping, my lord, that you might speak to him on my behalf, you know that he does not care for me.”

“Madame," Derek said, “he openly despises you, and it is because I know that he despises you completely and utterly that I am certain he has no interest in your niece. She could display herself naked upon his bed and he would offer her her dress and leave the room, simply because of how he feels about you.” He did not mind for his rudeness as his desire to visit the chamberpot was getting painful. “If you are so caring for the deportment of your niece you might want not to look at Lord McCall, for he and your niece have been meeting in quiet corners. I do not wish to accuse him of compromising her, but I would watch that she does not accept his protestations that love is enough and his penniless nature does not act against him, now if you will excuse me, Madame, I am in a hurry and you are blocking my way.” With that he did push past her, almost shoving her against the wall.

—-

When he came down he noticed that his uncle was no longer caught in his battle of lawn chess with Whittemore and was sat on a stone bench with Vidama Martin beside him, her foul temper gone as she laughed at whatever it was he was telling her. Laughing she was transformed into a true beauty other than the sour faced harridan he had shared the day with. He could almost see Peter’s fascination with the gender, nevertheless, he carried on as if undisturbed to the gathering on the lawn. The hunt had, he was told, been a bit of a waste of time, being little more than a brisk cross country ride.

With little else to do before supper than the random amusements of the _ton_ , he was quickly caught up in a game of Boston where the Grand Marshall, Lady McCall and the omega parent of young Vidame Corinthian Bryant as they needed a fourth and he was available. He had, before that game, been under the strange misconception that Lady McCall was a quiet demure woman, when it turned out she was as wild, whilst maintaining the image of perfect decorum, as her hair, which was barely caught up in an appropriate style, but looked like it might, at any moment, escape it’s pins and cascade down her shoulders in a riot of curls.

Lady McCall was aware of the attention her son was bestowing upon Vidama Argent and she did not care for it and had admitted that she would be making sure that her husband did not support it. "It’s not the girl herself," Lady McCall said, laying out her trick, “it's her insufferable family, if she were an orphan girl on the street with no fortune or prospects and a scandalous history I would welcome her into my home as he had chosen her, but a lifetime of making nice to the Argents is not how I intend to spend my twilight years.”

“It is true, her omega parent is sweet enough, her alpha parent, however," the grand marshall said, “as a soldier, the idea of meeting her in the field turns my bowels to water.”

Mr. Bryant laughed, “of course we all know how Lady Vesey was blessed by the terrible death of her husband, if she did not care for your son, Lady McCall I imagine she will just poison his tea like she did Lord Vesey.”

Derek laughed, “oh, come now," he said, “we all know that she strangled him with the curtain cord and claimed it bedplay gone wrong.”

“I was under the impression she slipped a knitting needle into his ear whilst he slept." The Grand Marshall said, “and I had considered her finally accomplished in the fabric arts.”

Lady McCall laughed into her wine cup, “oh be still, we all know that she pushed him down the stairs.” It was a common joke amongst the ton that Kate had murdered her husband, and everyone had a different version in order to maintain the joke, although she was quite innocent, Lord Henry Vesey having died choking on a fishbone at his club. “She wouldn't poison his tea because that would mean lowering herself enough to pour it. I am quite indulgent with my son, but there are times I must put my foot down. Of course, the poor girl is adorable, but unless God himself set down foot on English soil and sent her family to damnation without question she will not be the next Lady McCall.”

“Are you certain, one's husband might not be as amenable, the girl is not as wealthy as some," Mr. Bryant’s eyes looked over to where Stiles was now engaged in a conversation with Vidama Yukimura and her parents, sprawled out on the grass on a blanket soaking up the later afternoon sun. “But a girl’s dower often cushions the coffers.”

“My husband once, not long after we were married, raised his hand to me, I do not know which scared him more, that he had done it or the hiding his father gave him, even if my husband was swayed by her purse his own father will take my side and he despises Gerard Argent to the point of spitting on the floor at the mention of his name. He blames him, personally, for the whole mess in Scotland.”

“You mean the uprising?” The Grand marshall asked, refilling their glasses without being asked to.

“Yes, I don't know what it was that Argent did to gain such acrimony from the Laird, but he holds a grudge.” She answered, and shuffled the deck, “I know your own dear mother despised him," she addressed Derek, “are you not worried that Lady Vesey aims her niece at you and your rather comfortable coffers.”

“She approached me on the stairs," he admitted, “she believes my uncle might be making moves towards the girl, which I do not believe for an instant, Uncle Peter is a rake but even he would not dally with her for fear her aunt sets something up to revenge herself on my uncle for whatever reason she hates him.”

“She had a lover," The Grand marshall said, “who scorned her publically, just before her husband died, on Peter's recommendation, Sebastian Valet, do you know him?” Derek admitted that he did not, “I do not know which it was that so inflamed her, the loss of the man or the shame of it being so public.”

“That is why I tend to stay out of politics," Derek admitted, "I find them quite tedious and more concerned with saving face than actually achieving anything.”

“Which of course makes those obsessed with politics more interested in you, unlike your contemporaries they do not know which way you will move in their games.”

“A fine estate, a house in Brighton, and twenty thousand a year does help in their fascination. If you marry well then you can be brought into their schemes. Of course, they know the suspected bride and so can be sure where they fall.”

“Then I must be sure to marry someone no more interested in their games than I am,” Derek said and judging by the smile on the face of the Grand marshall he agreed.


	10. in which Derek is the victim of a never ending glass

Dinner was a large affair with all of the guests around a single very large table upon which was a table topper of a large fabric swan where the eggs were a candied confection that Derek felt was more suited to the absolute heights of society rather than the Whittemores, however, the meal was delicious, with mock turtle soup, a hog’s head followed by chilled Spanish melon soaked in white wine. Sitting next to the Grand Marshall he notices that until the melon was presented the Grand Marshall had had something else, a fish soup and then baked grayling. When Derek asked him about it the grand marshall had said that he and his son did not eat meat on Fridays and Derek's opinion of the Whittemore’s actually increased for many would not have cared.

“Stiles prefers that I eat fish, he gets very worried when I am struck with indigestion, convinced that I might die after one of the ambassadors aides collapsed in front of him as a child." Derek looked over at the omega who had checked that there had been fish on his father’s plate, before returning to his conversation with Vidame Bryant and when Derek tried to hear it was something about jewelry. He was lit by candlelight and it did wonders for his complexion, making him warm and incandescent. He wore a red jacket that just complemented him perfectly as he waved his hand, his fish fork still in it, back and forth as he talked.

Earlier in the evening Stiles had stood under the rowan tree with its spring blossoms as the breeze took it and for a moment he was surrounded by tiny white petals and he laughed and in that moment Derek made the decision that he wanted to marry Stiles and he would, in the morning when there was less wine involved for everyone, talk to both the Grand Marshall and Stiles about gaining permission to court him. The boy had looked fey and sylvan, like something escaped from Lady Titania’s court to bamboozle and sway mortals into his thrall, and damn him, Derek was caught.

He could not imagine that he would be refused but given time to court they could learn if they were compatible enough for marriage, and as both lived in London usually it would be a simple courtship, and he liked the idea of spoiling Stiles with things that he wanted and soft kisses. Admitting that he wished to court him took the feeling if self-disgust from the fact that his thoughts turned to Stiles when he took himself in hand.

Yes, he decided, he would court the boy with the aim to marry him, and it would be well. He would send Boyd to Bath tomorrow for a suitable courting gift, perhaps jewelry as he was certain that he had heard that he preferred it, and he would present the case to the boy, and they could spend time stepping out together to discover if they would be a good match.

Decision made he had another glass of cognac, which was, like everything the Whittemore’s provided, very fine.

Another glass of cognac accompanied the move into the drawing room for cigars, although Derek himself did not smoke, the Grand Marshall with whom he was talking, avoiding the topic that felt too big for his mouth like it might, if not sufficiently washed down with cognac, escape his throat and blurt itself out, a fine blend mixed with vanilla stuffed into a battered old pipe he kept in his pocket. "I only smoke two pipes a day," the Grand Marshall told him, “a cheap nasty blend before dinner to sharpen the appetite and a rich expensive one after to help it go down. Stiles hates the smell so this is my appeasement to him.”

"I don't smoke at all," Derek said, surprised as his loquacious nature, “my valet complains about having terrible difficulty getting the smell out of my coats when I go to the club, it would be worse if I added to it myself.”

“The things we do for our valets," The Grand Marshall agreed, “they make our lives so simple the alternative is unthinkable.”

"I would be lost without my Boyd," Derek agreed.

“Your boy?” The Grand Marshall asked, mishearing him.

“Boyd, Vernon Boyd.” Derek corrected, “he accompanied my sister when she returned from the Americas, and I would be lost without him. He manages my life much better than I.” The Grand Marshall laughed, “many times he has rolled me into bed and polished my boots, glaring at me when I wake as if he was the lord and not I.”

“Your boots _are_ impeccable," The Grand Marshall said, “you would do well to keep him happy or I might steal him away.”

Derek laughed as the waiter topped up his glass, “you will have to take his wife as well and she is not so germane. Although she is excellent at her job and Boyd adores her she is not as well suited to large gatherings.”

“Very few servants are," the Grand Marshall said calmly, “we expect so much of them it is of no consequence to overlook their flaws, as long as they do not impede their work.”

Derek leaned back in his chair with his glass of cognac held in his hand, “she is excellent at her job, I am merely downplaying her because without her and Boyd you would find me lost wandering through Brighton and looking for an address in Glasgow.”

The Grand Marshall brayed out a laugh and sucked on his pipe, “it is good to see such loyalty in an employer, it is a good sign of a man’s character when he defends his staff, even to the point of disregarding them that another might not swoop in to steal their loyalty from under him.”

"If Boyd wished to go I would not stop him, I believe that every person regardless of gender or station should be allowed each of their own decisions and such should be honored.”

“Here here," said the grand marshall. “A pity so few amongst those who make the decisions for the populace agree with you, have you never considered following your mother’s footsteps into politics.”

"I have no patience for it," Derek admitted, wondering why his cognac was sloshing about so when he moved, and why the world was a little off kilter, it must have been something he had eaten for he was sure he had only had one glass of cognac and it would not hit him so hard. “I find it mostly simpering and complaining. It must seem strange but I prefer honestly in the dealings I partake.”

“I am a soldier," The Grand Marshall admitted, "I understand completely. There is nothing but honesty on the battlefield, both know the other's full intent.”

“To kill each other." Derek mused.

“There is a beautiful honesty in that.” The Grand Marshall admitted, “I cannot abide liars.”

“And yet you are a close friend of my Uncle Peter.” Derek mused off hand, and unable to stop himself the Grand Marshall bellowed out a laugh.

They moved, side by side, into the ballroom where Stiles was sat at the harpsichord with Vidame Bryant prepared to turn the pages for him, "I know this song very well, it was among the first I learned, I am afraid that I will not need your aid for this, Corinthian, if you wish to dance.”

“I could dance to the music on the sheet," Vidame Bryant said with a pout, “I was hoping to see you play a waltz, I have heard that a fine waltz can be danced whilst holding a candle without the flame going out and I hoped to see it.”

“The waltz is scandalous," Vidama Yukimura said, mollifying the boy, “and it is too early for dancing, my dove,” She offered him her hand that the boy might stand up, “and letting Stiles perform a round or two that dinner is allowed to settle, before the dancing.”

“It would allow Stiles to get performing out of the way so he might dance later.” Vidama Martin said, “but come now, Corey," she said softly, pulling him up by the arm, “I am certain that Allison will dance the waltz with you whilst Stiles warms his throat with one of his foreign songs.”

Stiles stuck out his tongue before he hit a few keys before he started to sing.

_“Twoje piękno jest bez porównania Z płonącymi zamków kasztanowych włosach Z kości słoniowej skóry i oczu szmaragdu Twój uśmiech jest jak powiew wiosny Twój głos jest miękki jak letni deszcz I nie mogą konkurować ze sobą, Jolén Mówi o sobie we śnie Nic nie mogę zrobić, aby utrzymać Od płaczu , gdy nazywa swoje nazwisko, Jolén”_

"It’s a song," The Grand Marshall said, “that my dearest Klavdiya would sing with him, it's from a longer piece, about a rusalka who is devouring the men of the village.”

“Is that the sort of song a child should learn from his mother?” Derek asked.

“Children are mostly macabre, grim creatures, and Stiles was no different, when she saw Lydia Klavdiya would sing this to her, it’s the lament of a young bride begging the rusalka not to choose her husband, but that early in the tale the poor bride doesn't know that the beautiful seductress is a demon devouring the men of the village, so she tries to reason with her, she reminds her that she is beautiful, with hair the colour of twilight clouds and a voice like a spring air, with eyes like emerald.”

“I would like to read the lyrics, in English," Derek said because he was besotted and drunk enough to admit it, for the song is lovely.”

“ _I mogę łatwo zrozumieć Jak można łatwo zabrać mężczyznę Ale nie wiem, co on dla mnie znaczy, Jolén,_ " Stiles continued softly at the harpsichord, when he laughed it was with his entire body but when he sat at the harpsichord he was restrained, the music taking him over complete. He had his golden eyes closed, and his fingers careful and sure on the keys. Derek made the decision there and then to buy a harpsichord for both the Abbey at Maldon and one for the London Townhouse. He drank more of the cognac.

“Have you seen my uncle?” Derek asked, surprising himself for he was unsure from where the question came, he felt warm and comfortable and very much in love.

"I think he said that he was going to take an early night.” The Grand Marshall said.

It was then that Jackson Whittemore walked into the room, “Don’t you know any songs in English, Vidame?” he asked.

"I know many," Stiles answered sweetly, “but those that would suit you best are those less suited to a public gathering. Let us see there is my omega was bought like a two-penny,”

“Stiles!” Lydia cut him off. "I hate you both." She snarled and turned on her heel to leave the room slamming the door behind her, Stiles looked across at his father, then nodded and left the room after her.

“She’s been unwell, and forced to be charming," the Grand Marshall said, “so Stiles gets protective and picks at Jackson, and then this happens. It's been exactly what has been happening for the last few months, but her parents are set on the match.”

“The Whittemores are very rich," Derek said, “if he weren't so odious it would be a good match.”

“The Martins are broke,” The Grand Marshall agreed, “and the Whittemores aren’t short of blunt, they bought out their debts and pressed the marriage. Before the engagement they were close and growing closer, had he approached her like a normal alpha I think they might have been a fair match, and now they are responsible for my growing dyspepsia.” Derek raised an eyebrow in lieu of answering, holding out his glass for more cognac. “My son adores her like a sister, if she is unhappy he is unhappy, and when he is unhappy I am the one who suffers.”

"I have two sisters,” Derek admitted, “and an uncle, I had to buy my own alembic for the manufacture of peppermint oil."

The Grandmarshall burst out laughing. "In all seriousness,” he started, “do you have any with you, the cook here is wonderful, and incredibly talented, but rather terrifying and I have no desire to risk her wrath by complaining that I am dyspeptic.”

"I do," Derek said, leaning forward to rest his hand on the man's knee, "I never leave home without it. It is in my luggage, I can go get you it, I have no issue sharing, I mean share and share alike, and it’s only peppermint oil." He stood up and waited for a few moments for his balance to catch up. “I’ll go get it now.”

"I’ll be right up after you." The Grand Marshall said, "I just need to check on my son.”

Derek understood that. He also understood, sober, that the house was built on a very slight incline, not enough to impede someone, just that a few steps here and there throughout the building made the difference between the main steps at the front of the house, where it was two flights of short steps to the second floor, and at the back it was only one, because the other steps were elsewhere.

But Derek was drunk.

So when Derek went up the stairs, two at a time, to fetch the peppermint oil, he did not stop at the second floor, but continued up to the third, although his room was on the second. He bumbled along the corridor, using the wall to steady himself and shushed a pot plant because he was sure he was making too much noise and he was sure to disturb someone, most likely Boyd who would take one look at him and put him to bed, and he wasn't ready to go to bed yet, he still had almost a full glass of cognac that he hadn't finished yet, he had only had, he reckoned, one glass and so he wasn't ready to be drunk yet, but it must have been good stuff because he was very drunk.

He threw himself at the door as opposed to the usual graceful opening and then used the door frame to prevent himself falling into the room on the carpet using his face to break his fall. Then he looked around, this wasn't his room. His room was smaller, and had a blue counterpane and there was a red velvet jacket spread across the bed that he knew for a fact was not his, in fact he had seen that same Stephenson jacket on Stiles, and although there was a brief moment of Stiles has left this for me he soon realised the room he had gone into wrongly was that of the boy he wished to court and tried to leave as fast as he could, because he did not want anyone to think he had tried to compromise him, even if Stiles was not in the room himself.

However at the end of the corridor smiling at him as he left the room, perfectly aware of what was happening, with the Grand Marshall calling for him from the stairs, was Lady Vesey, Kate Argent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist, I heard Jolene on the radio the other day and the lyrics were so perfectly describing Lydia I just had to
> 
> I used google translate so if it's wrong tell me so I can fix it, but I didn't think anyone wanted to linger around whilst I got it checked


	11. In which Stiles is given a most pleasant surprise after breakfast

Part Two

 

Stiles woke with his hair buried in Allison Argent's braid, and Hayden's head on his chest. He was also a little hung over, and his mouth felt like it had been fitted with an Aubusson rug and new wall hangings, so he smacked it a few times before wriggling out of the pile of limbs he found himself in. After Lydia had left the ballroom the other omega had gathered in the nursery, where Lydia was staying in the Whittemore house, with a few bottles of stolen sherry - it was well-known Omega were not allowed spirits as they went straight to their heads, and got well and truly foxed.

Then they had all piled into the nurse’s bed, a full sized thing instead of the one that were intended for children, and talking, had fallen asleep before the conversation reached any real meaning.

He relieved himself, then pulled on his pants, shoes, and jacket before going across the house to his own room where he ordered a bath and some breakfast before getting ready for the day. Although it was wasteful he had an orange to remove the carpeted feel from his mouth, with his bread and jam, and a small pot of tea. He normally had chocolate in the mornings, but today was very much a tea day.

That done, and it barely being ten of the clock, and no one being expected to be up for at least another few hours, he asked his maid, one provided by the house instead of his own Emily who had remained at the embassy in London where he and his father lived, if there was a dog he could take for a walk because he did not care to be cooped up a moment longer, and if he pulled on a beta styled coat no one would ever know he was not a beta.

Although there were strict laws about beta impersonating omegas it never occurred to the lawmakers to reverse those laws about omegas impersonating betas for ten minutes of freedom from chaperones and predatory alphas. She met him at the door with a collection of Lady Whittemore’s mops who were all gamboling over each other like spring lambs at the prospect of the exercise.

Mindful of their short legs he decided to stay close to the house, wandering through the cypress trees in such a way that they could, if they preferred, take shorter methods than he was, and sitting beside the fountain for long minutes whilst they lay on the grass and panted.

Stiles liked dogs, but he preferred big dogs that could keep up with him whilst he walked. He was not allowed one at the embassy, there simply wasn't the room for anything larger than a spaniel without it knocking over the gewgaws and trinkets given by nobles who tried to curry favor with either his father or the ambassador.

A mastiff, he thought, a large proud hunting dog that could keep him warm in winter, curled around him in his bed, and draping itself over his feet in front of the fire, and who wouldn't whine or complain, like the mops were, at the prospect of a long walk. A good dog; a family dog, he decided. He was sure he could negotiate one when he no longer lived at the embassy. No, he corrected himself, a pair of them, it was cruel to only have one dog, two could amuse themselves better than one.

It was common practice for the new husband to give a gift, a trinket of some sort to the new bride, he would ask his lover for a pair of mastiffs, something to keep him occupied, and was sure he would be successful. Failing that he could certainly arrange them for himself, it was more common and fashionable to have lap dogs, but it just wasn't Stiles’ nature. Failing that, he decided, he would ask his father for a spaniel, a proper hunting dog, not the small lap dogs, but one that came to his knees.

The last time he had asked his father for a dog he had received a cat, who had revealed himself in his gangling adolescent to be the sort of mouser that people fought over, especially in London. It was an aloof creature that reacted to attempts at affection with claws and yowls, then bided its time before it deposited a half devoured rat on Stiles’ pillow as revenge. One time the rat hadn't been quite dead.

He returned to the house via the stables so that his cloud of mops could be watered before they returned to the house, and passed a piece of apple, squirreled away in a pocket, to the big black horse that hated Jackson as much as Stiles did. It was always good to have allies, he decided.

When he returned to his room to change his boots for the more expected shoes, shoes that were useless for walking any sort of distance in, the maid told him his father wished to see him in the private sitting room, and Stiles immediately went there.

His father’s expression was so grave when he found him, Stiles expected to be chided for having spent the night in the nursery, and not retiring to the bed that the Whittemores had so generously provided him. So when his father told him to sit, he did, in the chair facing him.

His father took that as his cue to stand and walked to the window. "I have good news." He said, although his entire manner suggested something other than good news, “I have spent the night in conference with the Marquis of Essex," Stiles' face gave no sign that he had any idea who that was, so his father qualified, “Derek Hale, Peter’s nephew," him Stiles knew. “He has asked me for your hand in marriage and I have, after much discussion and contract making, agreed.”

Stiles wasn't sure if he was delighted or horrified. "I," he started.

“Maciej," his father only used Stiles’ proper name when he wanted to impress the importance of something on his son, “let me finish. Lord Derek is a good man, and he has the circumstances to keep you well, and I think this is a good match.”

“Shouldn't he be here?" Stiles asked, “I mean if he's asking me for my hand in marriage?”

“He's gone to Bath to fetch a special license." The Grand Marshall said, “when we were talking we decided it would be best to arrange this with all haste, and that you would prefer it, however,” he sat down and took his son's hands in his own, “if you would rather go to London today to have the banns read then when he returns we can do that.”

“How long do I have to decide?” Stiles said. He wasn't sure he knew how to proceed in this. He had known, intellectually that he would be married, and that his father would make the ultimate decision in this.

“Till the end of the day.” The Grand Marshall said, “he’s a good man, son, he’ll be good for you, and there are few better in the world, and you know Peter well so you won't be completely alone.” Stiles frowned. “And his house in London is close to the Embassy, I shall be little more than a shout away.”

"I,” Stiles said, trying to stand up but his legs were loose and jelly like behind him.

“It's very romantic," The Grand Marshall said, “Lydia will be green with envy if you beat her to the altar.”

"It’s not a race, Tata.” Stiles said, “I am sure she will make a lovely bride if she doesn't run away to be kidnapped by pirates first, or something else to make herself as unappealing as possible." He frowned, looking at his hands where they sat in his lap, "I haven't a trousseau, I can't marry without one," it was the sort of panicked fretting he was prone to, he would fix on a singular detail that if it was not complete would cause the entire thing to go awry, it was not that he did not wish to be married, for it was the singular goal of every omega who had left the school room to be married and married well, and marrying a Marquis was marrying well indeed, but that the simple lack of a trousseau seemed an impossible obstacle that could not be overcome and would cause the entire enterprise to fail.

“You know Miss Morrell has been picking at your trousseau since you first came under her care," his father said reassuringly, “it has more the hallmarks of the linen cupboard of a large Swiss hotel than the simple chest of things a new bride is expected to have.” Stiles smiled for his father, “and I am sure that your new husband will be as delighted to go searching through it as you will because I know she’s never let you into it.”

"I’m supposed to make it myself," Stiles offered, “I,”

“Stiles, it’s going to be fine, you have a trousseau and I’m sure if you go and wake Lydia up from her bed she’ll tell you all of this several times over," the Grand Marshall stood up and kissed his son on the forehead. “You know I love you and would never do anything that would make you unhappy or hurt, don't you?”

“Yes, Tata," Stiles answered, “it’s just a lot.” He moved his hand, spreading them.

“He told me that he likes when you laugh, he said you laugh with your whole body like you might fall out of the chair just by how joyous you found it.”

“He clutches the side of his chest,” Stiles blurted out, “like he is reaching for a tit he hasn't got.”

“You might not have noticed him noticing you," the Grand Marshall said, “but you have noticed him, you’ll be Marquis of Wessex, Lydia won't even be Lady with the Whittemore’s title not in remainder.”

“I don't think she's trying to hold out for a better title, Tata,” Stiles said, “it’s making her sick, she's drinking so much, most mornings she’s unwell to her stomach.”

“It might be nerves," his father said, pulling him into an embrace, “bring her some ginger candies with mint tea, and something light that she might eat. I have had my fair share of mornings spent suffering too much sherry.”

“My own stomach now feels a little nervous,” Stiles said, and then leaned back into the chair, away from his father, "I am to be married, truly, and married well?”

“Very well,” The Grand Marshall said, “it's a good match and you’ll be well suited and happy together, I’m sure of it. You know I would not allow it if I thought, even for a moment, that he might be less than you deserve.”

"I know, Tata,” he said, “but I was beginning to think I might have to be put on the shelf, even with my extensive dowry I wasn't even capable of attracting fortune hunters.”

"Oh you attracted them, all right," the Grand Marshall growled, “but we scared them off well enough, Morrell, Parrish and I.”

—

Stiles admitted that he was beside himself when he went upstairs to tell Lydia, humming Greensleeves under his breath he had to stop at the window to prevent himself from bellowing out just to let it loose or he might explode. It was only when he took the tray of breakfast from the maid that it occurred to him that he had not thought to insist upon the pair of mastiff pups that he had only that morning decided that he would demand from his new husband.


	12. in which the couple marry

Stiles marriage to Lord Roderick Hale, Marquess of Wessex, was a rather quiet affair. The Whittemore’s local vicar, Finstock, was a man with a round face, the start of jowls, and strangely bulging eyes as if he was choking on something, and a strange fascination with tennis and could, at a moment’s notice, start a long and familiar rant over it's virtues over lawn tennis. He asked both celebrants if they played, Stiles admitted as an omega he wasn't allowed to play anything more strenuous than Battledore and Shuttlecock he admitted that tennis, played on an indoor court with walls, looked like great fun.

“Stupid restriction,” the vicar admitted, “more movement in an omega, more drive to win, you hear that, boy," the boy in question was a highly ranked peer of the realm, “you don't want to get into a fight with an omega, they always win.”

Derek ducked his head and called him sir when he answered. Lydia had told Stiles what she knew of Derek that he was shy and often appeared terse because social situations made him uncomfortable. He was a good man who had made his money in salt and owned several factories who were spoken of as being fair. He had two sisters, Cora who lived in Geneva with her husband, and Laura who mostly stayed at her husband’s country estate, and who had married Lord Deucalion Winterbourne, who was one of the Derbyshire Winterbournes. Lydia had not known why, barely two years after her marriage, she suddenly quit society. That had been nearly three years before, so before either Stiles or Lydia had come out.

Derek's parents had been active in politics, but after his omega parent died, just after Cora’s marriage, the alpha parent, Talia, was not far behind. According to Lydia, this was quite normal, if the alpha died the omega could go on to live a full life, but without their omega, the alphas never lasted long.

Hayden had done his hair whilst Allison had chosen what he would wear, wearing choosing a long green velvet jacket that he wasn't sure why his father had packed, as an unmarried omega, or “white" he wasn't supposed to wear dark colours but he had always favoured autumnal colours, bronzes, golds, reds, and greens. He had seen the fabric, with its forest green color, and had ordered a suit in it although until he married he would not have been able to wear it. He had always planned to wear it with bronze coloured breeches and vest, but he didn't have them here in Bath, they were in his wardrobe in London, so he had had to borrow suitable pants from Corey, and Lydia had gone into her jewel chest to find things that suited it, including an emerald cravat pin that must have been a gift as it looked so much richer than any of her other jewellery.

Unusually for a male omega Stiles loved jewellery, he liked shiny fripperies, even paste, it was something he had shared with his mother before she died, he had crowded her onto his lap when she was dressing so he could try on her gems, draping chains through his hair and slipping rings on his fingers.

Whenever he wore jewelry it brought him back to those moments so wearing her pin, which was a brooch that was repurposed and a pair of baltic amber drop earrings that had been his mother, and when he walked up the small aisle to where Derek stood next to his uncle and looked at him like he was truly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

And it made Stiles feel very humble.

Peter had a grin like a wolf, and he looked Stiles up and down and grinned at him like he was party to some joke that he had not shared with the room at large. Stiles’ dad was beside him and when he saw Peter smile he squeezed Stiles’ fingers within his own. No matter what Peter had in mind Stiles knew his father was beside him to protect him.

For his whole life, his father had been his shield, and he still was.

So Stiles walked alongside his father up to Finstock with his bulging eyes and for some reason a whistle where his rosary should be, as there was some sort of commotion outside with Jackson shouting McCall but it was distant, something that had nothing to do with Stiles right here and now, and Finstock was talking, comparing married life to a game of tennis.

Stiles wasn't really listening, he just said I do every time he was asked a question, at one point the gathered celebrants laughed so he must not have been meant to answer it then, but his mouth was dry and it went drier every time his husband smiled at him.

He felt like a paper puppet on a wand, like in the toy theater he had had as a child, moved around the small stage by unseen hands and made to participate in a story no one had told him. Stiles had, carefully with Miss Morrell, made other paper figures, pasted and colored and cut out of stiffened card, to put in his plays.

This play would not have the church beset by dragons, however.

Right now Stiles felt so numb he might not have noticed.

He could not say what Derek was wearing just that his hand was dry when it took Stiles’ own to slide the ring onto his finger. It was a black pearl surrounded by small pink sapphires but it was a little too tight and he wondered, in that sort of distant way that was affecting him, that he might need oil to take it off again, then he realised that this was his wedding ring and he would not be taking it off.

He wondered if he should be admiring it, but he wasn't sure that he was going to.

Derek took his hand and kissed him softly on the forehead when he was urged to, and then they were at breakfast and Stiles still felt a little numb.

He sat next to his husband who talked politely to everyone who asked, and ate mechanically although he didn't know what it was he was eating. He drank a sparkling wine, he remembered that because the bubbles made him cough and his husband, he couldn't remember being given permission to call him by name, but had asked for water for him, to help with the coughing caused by the bubbles.

They had celebrated until it was time for nuncheon where they got into the carriage to go to their married home, but Stiles wasn't sure anyone had told him where it was. His father kissed him on both cheeks with the muttered admonishment to be good, in Polish, like a secret between them. He had been telling Stiles that in some way or another since Stiles was old enough to remember, taking his nurse’s hand,  _być dobre_ , sitting waiting for something with his feet kicking back and forth on the chair, _być dobre_ , a kiss to his forehead before he trimmed the wick on his bedside lamp, _być dobre_.

So he took his hands, and kissed him on both cheeks repeating that phrase, “ _być dobre_ ” and Stiles had smiled for him, even though he felt numb because he loved his father and nothing had changed just because he was married now. It was the reassurance he needed.

The Hale coach was reasonably new, freshly sprung and painted, with a velvet interior where even the kickboards were covered and padded. There was a carpet, brushed and clean, on the walls and ceiling to keep in the heat, and there were pockets of leather strips here and there.

The weather had turned and the previous day’s heat had turned to a rather chill and heavy breeze with the promise of rain, which was perfectly normal for the English May where the weather could switch from sweltering hot to hail stones and winter chill within a week. The spring was mercurial and it was no surprise to anyone when it did. Lord Byron had made the joke that about T=the English winter - ending in July, to recommence in August.

“Are you cold?” Lord Hale asked, as the carriage started to rock moving towards their goal, “my sisters are omega and I know they feel the cold keenly.”

Stiles tried to smile for him, “I am a little cold," he admitted.

Lord Hale stood up, and lifted the bench upon which he had been sat, and from it, he pulled a large shawl, shaking it out, before he reached over and went to wrap it around Stiles’ shoulder, and then he stopped himself, “here," he said, “you should try to sleep, it’s a long drive.”

Stiles nodded, tugging the blanket around his shoulders, then kicked off his shoes, pulling them up unto the bench so his head was against the padded wall of the carriage, where the carriage seats were built like couches into its body. It was the height of luxury, and there was a wooden writing slope on the opposite couch where Lord Hale sat, and a locked tantalus in a cabinet built into one of the walls. There was real glass in the door windows, and heavy curtains to close away the world.

Before he closed the bench and sat back down Lord Hale pulled out a large bear fur, and draped it across Stiles’ legs, “if you wish something, please let me know. I would not have you unhappy.”

Stiles offered him a smile, "I will remember that, my lord.”

“Derek,” Lord Hale corrected, “amongst family I am known as Derek. I would have you call me by name.”

Stiles nodded, “I am Maciej,” he said, “but everyone calls me Stiles.”

“Well met," Derek said, closing the bench and sitting down, a pillow beside him if Stiles would want it, “now rest, dear one, it has been a busy morning for you.”

“For us," Stiles corrected and yawned, “it's been a busy morning for us both.”

“It has," from his pocket Lord Hale pulled out a pair of small spectacles and perched them on his nose, “I might try to sleep a little too.”

===

When Stiles woke up the carriage was pulling into a courtyard, at some point, the pillow and a receiving cloth on top of it had been wedged under his head. It was getting dark outside. “Oh, you’re awake," his husband said, “I was wondering if you'd sleep through.”

“Are we there?” He asked, reaching up for a good stretch to work out the kink in his neck.

“We won't be in London for a while yet," his husband said, “we need to change the horses, I thought we might get some supper, and something to drink.”

With his head still full of sleep he blurted out, "I need to piss like a racehorse.” It was the sort of thing he would say to his father and he would be chided about manners, but his husband just laughed.

“You're not the only one, with all the wine I've been drinking I think I’m about to end a drought. I have been hoping for an inn for at least half an hour, otherwise, I was going to have to have the driver stop behind a well-placed hedge.” If he expected Stiles to laugh he was disappointed.

“Has it been so long, sir?” Stiles asked.

“It is nearing nine of the clock, you looked so peaceful I did not want to wake you. We are near London now.”

“That is good." Stiles undid the shawl from around his shoulders, and removed his green jacket, pulling on a more staid black one that he had brought with him, the green jacket was beautiful and he didn't want it ruined by the smoke of the taproom, both that from the fire and from the inevitable pipes. He had no idea how to speak to his husband but allowed him to help him down from the carriage, his bones felt tight and ungainly, like they were someone else’s, probably from sleeping in the carriage, but the bench had been comfortable and the springs kept the worst of the bumps from the road from reaching him.

He could not remember if he had dreamt, but he was led by his husband’s black manservant up the back stairs of the inn to a private sitting room with a table, the innkeeper’s wife, in a drab dress with a clean apron and cloth over her hair was fussing with the lamps, making the room as bright as she could, as his husband's man put in orders for food, whatever stew she had in the pot on trenchers and ale.

Stiles excused himself to use the _pissoir_. The man servant followed at a discreet distance, not watching but watchful.

He ate mechanically, and drained his charger of salted ale, he even ate the bread the stew was served on, softened by the gravy, although most people didn't. Then after a short walk to aid digestion and to stretch out his legs he went back to the carriage.

A lamp had been lit inside and the red velvet suddenly felt very oppressive in the flickering lamplight, like it was the inside of some great internal organ and he might be consumed, digested. He sat primly and waited, then after a few moments that felt interminable he fetched his tatting from the work bag stuffed into one of the door pockets, and put it in place, his hands working back and forth in the familiar gestures until he had completed one ring, a chain, a second ring, 4 hitches and a _picot_ , 4 hitches and a _picot_ , 4 hitches and a _picot_ , 4 hitches, close the ring, reverse four hitches and a _picot_ , four hitches and a _picot_ , reverse, it became a comfortable rhythm, easily done in the light and it felt like home.

The carriage rocked when his husband, Derek, he had to start thinking of him as Derek in his own mind, not just his husband, he was a person, not just this shadowy entity who had taken over Stiles' life, climbed in. He noticed Stiles’ at work and smiled, "I could watch you do that eternally,” he said.

Stiles supposed it was a compliment. “It makes a lovely edging.” He answered, “I can be a flitterwit, my mother taught me this, she decided if my hands were busy then my mind would be free for conversation without wandering.”

“She sounds like a wise woman, why did she not come to Bath?”

“She’s dead," Stiles said, perhaps more bluntly than he intended. “She died when I was a child.”

"I’m sorry,” Derek said, “both for your loss and my own question.”

“I would have thought you would have asked my father." Stiles answered, “I am given to understand that you pled your case to him most successfully given that I am now here.”

Derek reached out and took Stiles hands in his own. “I will do my best to do right by you, to make you happy.” He said, and put a soft kiss on the nub of Stiles’ thumb, through the lace he had made that was draped over his hand. “I wish us to be happy.”

Stiles had nothing to say to it and the kindness was so unexpected he melted into it. He was not one to keep quiet however and he stuttered something. His husband answered him with a kiss, then a soft apology at being so forward as if he did not own Stiles as if it was not his right. Stiles cut off his apology with a kiss of his own. His husband’s beard was soft, which he had not expected, and his breath was cold with peppermint oil, which he had taken with water after his meal.

His kisses were voracious, both of them perched on their benches until his husband, Derek got up, almost without pulling apart and sat next to Stiles. Stiles thought he might lose his mind when Derek's mouth moved to the corner of his jaw, and then the skin of his throat, tugging away his cravat to reveal more of the skin, his mouth was soft, his lips pressing firm and there was the pleasant scratch of his neatly trimmed beard, which was unfashionable but suited him, and when Derek's hand moved to Stiles’ waist and Stiles made a small moan into his mouth Derek pulled back, his mouth reddened from the kisses. "I am sorry, I should not have so presumed.”

Stiles was struck silent by the kisses so when Derek sat back on his bench with his hands between his thighs he was startled.

All of his fears for the wedding night, with Lydia’s frank discussion - there had been diagrams - and his father’s reassurances, and he had not wanted those from his father, suddenly seemed very distant.

He picked up his tatting and returned to his work.

—-

When they pulled up to the London house he was tired and did not take details in, he accepted the bath that the maidservant had drawn for him, and sank into the hot water gratefully, then allowed her to dress him in a simple nightrail and pull back the covers to his bed. He climbed in and settled against the pillows trying to look attractive for when his husband came to him.

He left the lamp burning and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Derek did not come.

The next morning scribbled in his journal he wrote the single word “ _nic_ ”.


	13. in which a close friend of the family inserts a thread of doubt in the lovers

Stiles broke his fast with liver and onions, which although not a favorite he had not the heart to send away as the makeshift maid, the housekeeper, fussed about him, plumping his pillows and chattering excitedly about how nice it would be to have little feet around the house again like he was already pregnant. He just accepted the fussing and let her put out clothes for him to wear, after a fresh hot bath.

He took the bath, and dressed casually, finally glad to be rid of the white and pastel colors of an unmarried omega, and pulled on a dark jacket that was too large in the shoulders he suspected belonged to his husband, even though it was beta long.

When he went downstairs, hoping to garner more coffee, for the cans they used were smaller than he preferred for his morning beverage - he liked large tankards of chocolate first thing in the morning, he was disappointed to learn that his husband had already left the house. “He dashed out on some business, my lord," the footman said, “said he hoped to be back afore you woke up.”

“I don't sleep well," Stiles answered, "I rarely sleep past nine of the morning." He turned his head to the clock on the mantle which read that it was quarter past, and here he was bathed and dressed and ready for the day.

“Certainly, my lord, I shall make sure Himself is aware of it, would you be liking more breakfast, I am aware that Mrs. Primrose sent up a tray but that doesn’t mean you got all that you wanted," the staff seemed rather informal.

“I would like more coffee,” Stiles said, sitting on one of the couches before the fire, there was a pleasantly small fire in the grate, and the smoke was sweet with what smelled like roses. It was likely that the rosebushes he had seen from his window had been cut back in the winter and the precious branches and old petals saved for his arrival before they were burned.

The footman looked delighted to be of service, possibly uncomfortable because he was unsure of what kind of master Stiles was. He had no idea if he was capricious or cruel, all he knew was that his job depended on his whim. He gave a quick bow and went off in the direction Stiles assumed of the kitchen. In his head, he was making a quick map, but he would certainly ask for a tour. So far he had found a sitting room because the door was open, and his own bedchamber. He knew there was a large vestibule near the front door, which would be suitable for gatherings, but not large enough for a ball. There were other doors, pulled close, and he still felt enough like a guest in the house, although as the lord’s bride he was not, not to go exploring on his own.

The coffee was delivered in a tall silver pot with another of the small cups and a plate of spiced biscuits, which he tried warily but then dove into without abandon for they were finer than those that he had had at the embassy. His plan for the day was to visit them for it was unfair, he decided, that they should learn of his marriage simply by a letter. He had spent his life in the embassy after whatever it was that his parents had done to make them so unwelcome in Warsaw where he had been born.

He would see Harey, the ambassador, and her husband Lemuel, and be back in time for tea, it was a simple enough plan and he was sure of it, but he was not sure if he should leave a note. He had no idea how long he would be absent from the house, or if he should remain inside and wait for his husband who had no intention of being out for long. Perhaps he should wait for him and they could go together, perhaps share nuncheon in London, spending the afternoon in the park.

Unfortunately, it was a redundant fantasy for he had no idea how long his husband would be absent, and he might waste the day waiting for him, and then it was certain that Harey would learn of the marriage from his father's letters, no he would finish his coffee and go straight to the embassy.

When the servant came back in he asked for a chaperone and told them his plans he pulled on a great coat, one that was not his own and almost certainly belonged to his husband, before getting into the carriage that they had arranged for him. The embassy was only a few streets away but it was not done for an omega to travel on foot, especially when they were titled. It made the process of chaperoning them much more complicated, so it was not done.

Instead of the full carriage, this was a small barouche painted with the Hale crest, it had a leather hood, that was pulled back because of the fine May weather, but also a pile of blankets on one of the benches. Although beautifully maintained and brightly painted it was at least a decade old, suggesting that they bought things finely and kept them well rather than buying new every few years as most did.

Everything about the Hale house in Grandage Place gave the impression of having been bought years before and maintained as opposed to simply replaced with whim and fashion. There was great wealth and everything had been bought with the best that was available and treated with care. The rear of the house was covered by ivy and a wisteria plant, the branches heavy with flowers, and in the small garden was a large lilac tree and a hedge of magnolia trees imported from the Chinas. It was the kind of garden that needed a large dog.

It was his garden now, he could have the flowers and trees ripped from the ground and burned for no reason than he wanted to, so if he wanted a large dog that would soil it and dig up the primroses he would have one.

—-

The Russian Ambassador was almost a caricature of everything you expected from a Russian, he was a bear of a man, with thick black hair, waxed moustaches and a laugh like a cannon blast,big and booming, and when he saw Stiles he picked him up and spun him around as he crushed him in his huge arms. Harey, the Polish Ambassador and second mother to Stiles, was a small waifish alpha with sharp hard features and square set eyes she spoke in soft gravelly whispers. Although she ate to excess most often she always looked gaunt to the point of illness. She wore dark colors and let her hands rest in her lap like they were made of marble, with the nails painted black.

“You have returned without your papa,” the Russian ambassador, Alexander Andreivich said, and his very voice echoed around their parlor, “that means that you have secrets that you hold from us that you have come to share with us now.”

“You are wearing a ring,” Harey said quietly if Alexander was fire and canon then Harey was something still and quiet. “Is it something you wish to tell us? Perhaps our little boy is engaged?”

"Married," Stiles corrected. “It was a sudden thing. I have married, can you countenance it, he fell in love with me like he was struck by lightning, and he convinced my tata and we were married. Look," he showed her the ring, “I am all aflutter, I do not know my arse from my armpit it happened so sudden.”

“My little Boris will be heartbroken," Alexander said, “he made you promise to wait for him, that you might be married when he is grown and attend the zoo every day.” He even acted like he was heartbroken.

“I shall have to have him over for lunch," Stiles admitted, “with his nurse, will his Mama wish to accompany us,”

“But where is your husband, this beloved who swept you off your feet and away from us?” Harey asked, reaching out to a small cabinet on the table beside her from which she pulled her pipe, a long ceramic thing with a painted bowl.

"I asked that I might attend here alone," Stiles lied, "I did not wish to overwhelm him with family.”

“Nonsense, little one," Alexander said, “we are family, family only overwhelms, you must tell us who he is that we might threaten him, as family.” The teacups always looked so fragile and small in Alexander's hands. As a child, Stiles had climbed him like he was a tree, appreciating his height and build and ability to allow him to swing him from his triceps like a monkey.

“Lord Roderick Hale, Marquess of Wessex,” Stiles said and he was proud of that name, for he had, however, he had done it because he had no reason that he could think of, won one of the most eligible bachelors in Europe.

“He does not lack for blunt.” Harey said, and took a long draw from her pipe, “but a dower as large as yours has swayed richer heads.”

“Harishka," Alexander chided, ”can you not see our boy is in love?”

“I am not Russian," Harey answered, “so quick to believe in love when seventy thousand pounds is offered.” Everything in Harey’s nature was of asceticism, she wore dark colors, and her hair was piled neatly upon her head.

“But Harishka, do you not love your little Lemuel?” Alexander told her, pouring himself more tea, before sitting back in his chair. Unlike Harey he wore a military uniform thick with braid and cord, and his boots were polished to a mirror shine. She wore black muslin and velvet pelisse when she stepped out. She could have been any alpha woman of London, but he was distinctive. “As I recall you stole him away from his affianced.”

“One of us must have some sense and skepticism.” She said calmly. “And yet our young lover is absent and unable to defend himself.”

“He went to see his solicitor," Stiles lied, he had no idea where his husband had gone, “to make sure that I am on his accounts.”

"Or to spend your dower.”

“Harishka," Alexander snapped, “you go too far.”

“I thought you'd be happy for me, Harey," Stiles said, his hands in fists at his side, “you have always said that you feared no alpha would want me, you always said you thought I would be compromised by some guttersnipe with no intent but my dower, and now that I am married, and married well you are intent that he is after my purse.”

“He is blood to Peter Hale.” She answered calmly, sucking on her pipe as the smoke formed wreaths around her head, “I know better than to expect honesty from that house.” She said it with such conviction.

“He is not Peter," Alexander said, “and I wish you nothing but love," he said and reached forward to kiss Stiles on both cheeks.

“If you are so in love, my child, why are you here and not in a nest of your own making with him?” Harey was draped over her chair like a carpet, tapping her pipe against the bowl she had to empty it.

"I thought you would be happy for me.”

“When you are happy, my little one," she said sadly, “then I shall be happy too.”

"I am happy for you, Sasha," Alexander said, “Harishka is jaded, her heart is broken for Lemuel is in the country without her, you shall join me in coming to my house, my Mishka has pups, as a wedding gift you must take two, for Mishka's pups do not do well alone, you must, I know you love my Mishka, so you will love her babies as if they were your own, I shall be happy for you, my little one, we shall leave Harishka to her piss and vinegar, and you can tell me all about your new husband.”

—-

Stiles returned to the house in Grandage place in the early afternoon with two silky white Borzoi pups curled on a blanket at his feet. He was sure Derek would be delighted, but Harey's words lingered in his ear, that Derek had married him for his considerable dower.

When he went in and removed his coat he found two movers who were placing a harpsichord into the rear parlor, with much grunting and apologies, and Derek stood by the fire, making sure it was placed in the best position to get the morning light.

With an arm full of puppies he could not do what he wanted and fling himself at Derek but the shy smile Derek offered as he scrubbed his hand through his hair told him Harey was wrong. Derek did love him, he did.


	14. in which Stiles feels like a stranger in the London house

Stiles introduced the puppies as Alyosha and Vasilisa, daughters of proud Mishka, Tsarevna of the Russian Embassy, and wedding gifts, with his heels dug in braced for Derek to deny them. Instead Derek just smiled at him and told him he would have to send someone out for the necessities and that they were going to have to move to Malden. Stiles was still ready for a fight when he asked why, are you worried about the London house.

“Of course not,” Derek answered, putting a soft kiss on Stiles’ temple, “there’s simply no room here for them, love, there’s nowhere for them to run," and with that he bent down and scratched Vasilisa, the white puppy, on the head. Vasilisa thought this was brilliant and started jumping up at his leg whilst her brother was more interested in doing his best to slither under the desk and into the small knee hole hidden there.

"I think she likes you better than me." Stiles said, he was still smarting from what Harey had said, but Derek had not been present for it, and it was unfair, he knew, to take it out on him.

“I am excellent at scratches behind the ear." He answered, and he took one hand from the puppy, which he had lifted from his arms, and reached out to cup his hand around Stiles’ neck, moving his fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and Stiles shuddered, “see.”

Stiles jerked away, “we should send Alexander, I mean the Russian Ambassador, a card to thank him for his gift. I was half afraid you would make me return them.”

"In Bath," Derek began, “you were often in the company of the dogs, I was going to introduce you to my hounds in Malden, I would deny you nothing, love.” He used the affectation easily, as if it meant nothing to him. “Or you," he scratched Vasilisa under the chin as her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth in canine glee, “because you're beautiful aren’t you.”

“Vasilisa the beautiful," Stiles started to explain but they were interrupted by a footman, causing both puppies to start barking, more in eagerness that they be played with than any real threat.

“What curious animals?” a tall man said walking in, he had a head of angelic curls and a strong jawline, looking like a statue from a roman cathedral come to life, “they look like sticks tied together loosely and covered in fur,”

“They're dogs.” Stiles snapped at the intruder, it was a man he had met before, Isaac Lahey of the Yorkshire Laheys, the younger son of a dissolute lord whose moods swung between deep melancholia and arch cruelty, as such his father had never allowed him much time with the alpha. His brother had joined the military, despite his father’s wishes, and was well known as a brave soldier. Camden Lahey had been considered a viable suitor. Isaac Lahey had not. "If you will excuse me," Stiles said and double tapped his leg to attract the dogs, “they don't need to learn your bad habits.”

He took the puppies into the small yard, letting them run amok and chase each other through the rose bushes whilst he sat on the bench and laughed at their antics. They seemed more than content to stalk and leap at each other with high pitched barking at him, as if urging him to watch them, or, more likely, to join in. As angry as he was with Lahey's interruption and rudeness he could not help but laugh at their antics, as they fell over their own feet and poor Vasilisa got her coat stuck in the roses forcing Stiles to go over to free her. He soothed her scratches with ear rubs and soft words before her brother decided to join him, jumping up at Stiles’ shins with wordless demands that he join his sister on Stiles’ knee.

“Asha," he chided, tapping the puppy on the nose, as he put his sister on the floor, “be patient. My lap is not near big enough for both of you, and you’ll both be too large soon enough for either.” He scratched the puppy’s head, “I’ll have to have a new couch bought, one big enough for the three of us, aye?” the puppy didn't say a lot.

He got up, the two puppies trailing along behind him as if he were dropping pastries along the path until he passed his husband’s valet, Boyd. “Is there a ball, or something similar with which I can distract them?” He asked, "I would not have them chew the furniture.”

The valet admitted that he would search one out, but also told Stiles that his luggage had arrived from the embassy, but that he had been told to put it straight on the carriage for they would be leaving for the country house, in Malden, the next day. Stiles groused that it would be nice to have been told these things, at which point Boyd continued that his lordship had gone with Mister Lahey to his club and that Stiles would be dining alone.

Stiles took a deep breath, not wanting to lose his temper with the puppies at his feet in case they thought that he was shouting at them. “Tell the cook I shall take my supper with the staff," Stiles said, it had been his custom at the embassy because he found eating alone often gave him dyspepsia, and he was, allegedly, insufferable when sick. “Unless my husband has given distinct instruction otherwise something simple and filling. I am deceptively easy to please with food.I like it to taste good and be in large quantities.” Boyd nodded and said that he would and that he would make sure the staff was on their best behavior.

“No need," Stiles corrected him, “my father is a soldier and I was the only child in a house of ambassadors, they could either leave me to eat alone in the nursery or overlook me eating with the staff. I don't care to eat alone, so unless I have guests for supper, or my husband says otherwise I will eat with the staff.”

“Certainly, my lord," Boyd said, “and if Cook has already started something more complicated and better suited to two than to one.”

“Then I shall take my supper with you, if you do not mind, and I have heard tell that you are married, is that also true?” Boyd assured him that it was, “in that case I shall take my supper with you and your lady wife. Of course, I imagine that this is when I discover that my husband has left instructions on what it is that I am to do for supper, and find that I am to be visited by Queen Charlotte.”

“Not to my knowledge, my lord," Boyd said, “he hoped to be back before you went a bed but Lahey had something that required his lordship’s attention at his club and that he would eat there. I am to do anything that you require of me.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow, Boyd remained nonplussed at his reaction. “Then in addition to the ball, if you could find me a bottle of gin, I have the sudden urge to get well and truly foxed. It is barely late afternoon and I am already the victim of a rather awful day.”

“Gin shall sour your appetite, my lord," Boyd told him, “however my lord has a truly excellent plum brandy in his cellar that I am sure would better suit, certainly it will go wonderfully with a cheese I know that Cook has, I would not want you to drink on an empty stomach.”

“A pity it is the wrong season for apples,” Stiles told him, “it would be a lovely day to spend in the garden drinking ale and eating sliced apples. It might even make this day redeemable.” He said, “bring me the slivovitz, and the cheese, perhaps some cold pie if cook has some, and enough for yourself. I don't care to drink alone.”

—-

Sometimes when Stiles drank, not always, the alcohol betrayed him and he did not get drunk. He could not have said why, if it was a quirk of omega physiology or his own misfortune, but there were times he had gotten foxed from a single cup of fortified wine and others he could drink an entire bottle of brandy and not even feel even slightly added.

Unfortunately, although the brandy was as good as Boyd had said, although Boyd himself refused to drink anything other than small beer, with the excuse that his master would need him when he finally got in, to help undress,Stiles had drained the carafe, eaten a large portion of cold pork pie, and a wedge of creamy white cheese, with rye bread slathered thick with butter.

Perhaps it was the large amount that he had eaten, in lieu of tea, that caused him to not get drunk, but when it started to get dark he made the decision he would have a bath and wait for his husband, to confront him.

Boyd found an old thick blanket, the weave almost completely thick with burrs and knots where the fabric had been rubbed over years of use, which he put into an old wooden box with a few scraps of fur, taken from an old cloak and not whatever meat the cook was using for supper, and other things to make a bed for the pups, because unless they were given their own bed to share, they would share Stiles’, and Boyd’s wife was a laundress and she would not be happy with dog fur in the bed, or muddy paw prints, so the dogs were not to be in the bed, at least until his lordship had agreed.

After his third bath in as many days Stiles pulled on the night rail that Madame Morrell had made for him, it was soft muslin lawn, tied with a ribbon only at his neck, but had so many folds of fabric that until he walked it looked like it was all of a piece instead of open down the front. Over that he pulled a banyan which he buttoned up to his neck and went into what Boyd had explained to be his husband’s bedchamber to await him.

He was not drunk, although he should have been for the amount that he had consumed, but he wanted to corner his husband, to seduce him that he understood what was going on in his mind, that they might actually talk uninterrupted. With that in mind he settled on one of the chairs next to the small fire that Boyd had built, with his legs tucked up under him to keep his feet warm, and lifted the book that was beside the fire, that his husband had been reading, taking care not to move the bookmark. It was the scandalous novel Roxana- the Fortunate Mistress by Dafoe, which Stiles had the virtue of having read before, so he had no care if he was interrupted.

When he finished his wine he decided that he was cold and climbed into his husband's bed, still wearing his banyan, plumping the pillows to sit with his back there, but when he heard his husband coming to bed, calling for Boyd, and Stiles scurried from the bed, back to his chair, not because he was scared that he would be scolded for taking the presumption, but because his plan would not work if he was in the bed.

When his husband came in, sitting down on the bed to tug off his boots, his jacket gone and his vest open, with his cravat lost with his jacket. He looked undone and tired, but more vulnerable than Stiles had ever really seen an alpha. Swallowing Stiles unfolded himself from the chair and stood up, standing behind Derek until he gathered his wits about himself and moved into his eyeline. That done he unbuttoned the banyan and the ribbon from his neck and let the fabric pool at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit shorter than I like but there was another scene because it revealed something before I was ready for it to be revealed. So it had to go  
> but yay cliffhanger


	15. in which Stiles leaves for the country house

Stiles stood there, naked in the lamplight, and watched his husband's face as a myriad of emotions crossed it. There was want there, his pupils expanding and his nostrils flaring, the twitch of his fingers as if he wanted to reach out and touch. Then there was the set of his jaw as he bit down as if he was trying to chew on a terrible emotion.

He then stood up, pulling his own banyan, a worn red thing that had been draped across the bed waiting for its owner, and in a few steps stood close enough to Stiles that he could taste him, that warm smell of musk and lemon oil and draped the banyan around Stiles' shoulder. The fabric was worn soft with use, and rich with the scent of his husband and that soft warm smell of sleep, and although he tugged it shut he did not fasten it, his hands in fists in the fabric at Stiles’ shoulders.

“You don't have to do this, beloved,” Derek said softly.

“Yes I do bloody well have to do this," Stiles snapped, “I have seen more of the fairies than I have of you since our marriage and I am reasonably sure that they do not exist.”

Derek took a half step back, his eyes were still on Stiles’ nakedness, on the flush of anger on his collarbones, through the burgundy colour of the robe. He was deliberately, and obviously, trying to keep his eyes away from the splay of his hips, the slight swell of stomach, and his small, hairless omega sex. He kept licking his lips like there were words there, or the overwhelming desire to reach out and taste. “I wanted us to come to this naturally,” Derek said, “but everything has been so busy, it is true that misfortune comes in clumps when you are trying to do other things. I have wanted to take the time to get to know you, to lavish you with the attention that you deserve.” His hands were still in the fabric at Stiles’ shoulders, bunched there as if he could not decide whether or not to pull the fabric closed or push it down.

He was a perfect study of a man at war with his own nature. Stiles could see the obvious desire to push him to the bed and take what Stiles was offering, but also one who wanted to do that which he considered to be right. Derek took a deep breath and rested his head on Stiles’ forehead, “you tempt me like a devil, beloved,” he said. “I am only a man, and as such, I might falter.”

“I offer freely,” Stiles said, and took that step backwards to sit on the edge of the bed, letting Derek's fingers fall away from the fabric, “if the only way that I can get you to stay in one place long enough that we might talk is that I allow you to knot me I shall certainly do so.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, his name sounding strange in Derek's mouth after all the endearments, the use of the word love. “I don't want you to let me, I want you to want me to, I want you to share in the hunger I have for you because you know me because you desire me. I want us to come to that without pressure, or need, but want.”

Stiles couldn't help himself, he started to sob, unsure of where the tears came from, he was undone, exhausted, naked both figuratively and literally as if someone had stripped the very flesh from his bones. He did not know that he could tell up from down, confused as he was, and with the wedding being so quick, and Harey's casual dismissal of it as Derek seeking Stiles’ dower, he was undone. He had nothing left but tears so he shared them. Derek took the step forward to meet him and wrapped him in his arms, letting him sob into the soft lawn of his shirt. It was after, when Stiles had worn himself out, that he pulled shut the fabric of the robe, lifting his legs, and tucking him into the bed. “We shall talk in the morning, love, on the way to Maldon. I shall not let myself be pulled away. No business is as important to me” The pillows were still warmed from Stiles’ back when he had sat reading, and Derek threw the book to the side without care if he damaged it. Then finished undressing, down to his shirt, and got into the bed beside him. “Is this all right?” he asked, in a low whisper.

“To be honest, I would be more upset if you didn’t stay, all you ever seem to do is leave.”

“I don't want to, I wanted to be back this morning before you awoke, I hoped to be quickly about putting you on my accounts. I did not foresee that the business in Northumberland would continue to draw out and need so much of my attention, then when I came back you were visiting, and then Lahey’s dispute with his father needed me, and I wanted nothing more than to tell him to begone, but with his brother in the peninsula he needed someone and again I had not thought it would take as long as it did. My heart is broken that I left you alone so long.”

"I ate with the staff." Stiles yawned, it splitting his face open. It was one of the things that he had always been chided about as a child, as omega did not show their boredom or tiredness, and if they had to they covered it in the smallest motion possible and covered their faces with their fans.

Derek clearly didn't care, he just yawned too. “Boyd said, he said you ate like you hadn't seen food in a week, complimenting chef all the while.”

“She makes an excellent pork pie, and her pickle is wonderful. I told her not to make anything special so cold pie, boiled eggs, cheese and pickle it was.” It was almost mumbled. “Was good.”

"I’m glad," Derek said, it was the last thing Stiles heard him say before he fell to sleep.

—-

Stiles awoke to a furore, more than he expected for the simple quitting of the town house for the country manor, especially as it was only a few hours ride hence, although twice as long by coach, but people were scurrying too and fro, orders were being barked and in the centre of it all Boyd, of all the people in the house, was a well of calm, who was trying to groom Alyosha and Vasilisa who had, when they had been let out for their morning constitutional, gotten themselves covered in both muck and rose leaves. Vasilisa was trying at the same time to lick his face whilst her brother was chewing on his sleeve. Boyd looked almost beatific, as if he had reached the state where he was so completely finished with what was ongoing that he had transcended it and entered into a saintly calm. It was barely ten of the clock.

"My lord," one of the maids said, noticing Stiles’ state of undress. He was wearing his husband’s banyan, buttoned up all the front, but nothing underneath it, and his feet were stuffed into his husband’s slippers, “I am sorry for the confusion, however, his lordship has been dragged away by business. He barely had a single slice of bread, let alone the eggs that cook had made for him, he said that you are to eat and go on to Maldon without him, and he will join you and Boyd as soon as he can.”

Stiles was not polite in the terms that he used to describe his husband. “We’ll talk in the morning," he said to himself as he went to dress, “I shall not let myself be pulled away. No business is as important to me.” He affected a mocking, sing-song tone as he said it, “Roderick Hale you are a liar and a cad, and when you finally do spend time with me I am not going to talk to you.”

He sulked all the way to Maldon, with it's stop in Chelmsford to allow him to eat and the puppies to relieve themselves. He was perfectly aware of the fact that he was sulking, being too close to anger to do anything other than sulk or rage, but he had no intention of allowing it to stop him.

Maldon was a small village on the mouth of the Blackwater Estuary, the air getting thicker with the smell of the ocean, salt and something brackish that lingered in his chest. It started raining as they left Chelmsford and by the time that they had reached Maldon it was in thick heavy sheets that obscured everything except the trees that lined the road, Boyd had closed the waxed curtains down over the windows, he was sharing the coach with Stiles on Derek's distinct order, because Derek had decided that Stiles and Boyd were obviously bosom buddies based upon their single evening's acquaintance, and lit the lamps, although it was the middle of the day. It was barely mid-afternoon when, still in the middle of the persistent rain, that they drove through the village to the Hale Country Estate, Beeleigh Abbey. IT was a brick and timber building, certainly many years old, if not a few centuries, or built in that style, with mullioned windows, and black beams separated by panels of white outer plaster. Such buildings were long gone from London, but Stiles liked it, with it's red roof it looked like the pictures in the books he had as a child of manors and stately homes in Poland, but still managed to be quintessentially British, and best of all, lurking against one of the red brick walls, was a rather soggy and disgruntled peacock.

Stiles had always wanted a peacock, in the steady assurance of someone who knew they would never have one. Peacocks were given to Venetian omega of amazing renown as a mark of in such high esteem they were held. They were a completely useless extravagance needing land and care, their meat was too gamey and hard to farm to make them worthwhile food animals, so they were basically left to roam the estate for the simple purpose of looking expensive.

Boyd got out of the carriage first, then extended a parasol, whilst the puppies frolicked about at his feet, glad to be free although they had spent the best part of the day asleep, or chewing on Boyd’s trousers, sleeves and anything they could get in their mouths, and opened the door to the manor, shouting for the butler, Weasley. The house inside was all old dark oak and brick construction, built, more it seemed for, strength an light, although there were lots of windows they almost entirely had small Elizabethan glass panels which let in little light, a problem exacerbated by the storm.

The butler moved him into the main sitting room, a large medieval hall, the walls plastered white above the dark oak panelling, there were a few tapestries covering some of the higher parts of the room, and a fireplace large enough for six people to stand astride, although the brazier for the fire itself, currently unlit, was much smaller. Sat on one of the couches was a hawk nosed man with sandy hair and a rangy frame who was squinting, through a pair of spectacles, at a book in his hand as if it were denying him whatever it was that he sought from it. Facing him was a lady in a gouty chair, an oak chair with heavy black padding, and four small wheels, with a small shelf for her feet, which were politely tucked under her skirts. She wore a black chemise a’la reine with a lavender ribbon, with a white fichu tucked tight about her neck, and her hands, almost completely covered by the flounces of her sleeves, were wearing lace gloves. There was an unpleasant scar that traced the edge of her face, but was almost covered by her dark hair, and when the couple saw him the man stood up, and with the ease of habit turned the lady to better see him.

Stiles knew who they were even as the butler introduced him, although this should be Derek's place, Lord and Lady Winterbourne, Derek's sister, Laura, and her husband, Deucalion.

Lady Winterbourne had the same beauty as her brother, with the pale skin and eyes and dark hair, but had a soft plumpness he lacked, with a larger mouth, but her eyes had the same thick dark lashes that made the color seem brighter. She was also smaller, perhaps only as tall as Lydia, but her husband would have been as tall as Stiles himself, and he had a more patrician handsomeness and a military bearing that was only partially undone by his quick vanity doing it’s best to remove and pocket his spectacles as if he clearly did not need them to see. “You must be Maciej," Laura said, only slightly mangling his name, “but where is Derek?”

“I have no clue," Stiles said, “he rushed out of the London house this morning like he had the hounds of hell themselves upon their tail, without even a word to me to tell me of his intent.”

Laura sighed, a rattling sound that suggested worse health than her appearance gave credit to, and now that Stiles looked closer he could see a comfortable swell at her waist, with one hand pressed upon it, the other lying like a dead thing in her lap. She was, despite her rattling cough, and obvious disability, pregnant. “I am reassured that despite now being married that my brother remains an idiot." She said, “Duke, darling, go fetch us tea, young Maciej and I have so much to discuss, most of it uncomplimentary around my brother's idiocy.”

“I am well acquainted with Derek's complete stupidity in such matters," Deucalion said, “but perhaps you would prefer chocolate, vidame?” he turned to him, “you have spent a long time in the carriage."

“Tea would be lovely, thank you." He answered ,”but please, call me Stiles, my name is a horrid thing to pronounce and most cannot manage it. I no longer take it personally.” The puppies finally walked by Boyd and slightly damp were shown in.

"I know my brother did not give you such a thoughtful gift," Laura said, leaning forward, “he would, according to his letters, give you the world, but Derek is so easily distracted, he is not the sort to be thoughtful.”

She patted her lap, and Vasilisa, the braver of the dogs, went over to her, with her large feet bright white against the black fabric of Laura’s dress. Laura reached down and lifted her with one hand under her chest to help her up. “Aren't you a pretty girl, yes you are and are you a pretty girl too?” Alyosha lingered behind his sister and found himself unable to join her on Laura’s lap, “oh no, you're a handsome boy." She was clearly caught as she wanted to fuss both pups but only had the use of one hand, a problem made clear by the fact she clearly did not use the one that lay in her lap, even though Vasilisa was doing her best to burrow under it, waving her ass and wagging her tail. Stiles lifted Alyosha and placed him on his own lap when he sat down so that he could reach her hand to which he offered a few nervous licks. “Derek would never think to give you something unless you asked, did you ask?”

“They were a wedding gift from the Russian Ambassador, he is a close friend of my father’s, and unable to coerce me into marrying his son he offered me the pair of them, delivered of Mishka, who shared a sire with the mother of the brood as the Russian Emperor himself. So I gave them Russian names, this is Vasilisa the Beautiful, and this is," he rested his hand on the sleek white fur of the dog on his own knee, “Alyosha the cunning, although I should possibly call them Vasilisa the Brave and Alyosha the coward.” Laura laughed almost exactly like Derek.

“I asked Duke for a pup," she said, “after my accident, and he was so worried that it would make things worse that he begged that I wait, and then," she rolled her shoulders, “I had wondered if I would ever have one, if I did not bully the staff into sneaking one into my lap, and then it was most like to be a mop or one of those small poodles that the French ladies carry on their persons, I prefer big dogs," she said as Vasilisa decided that she had no more intent of burrowing under the arm, turned around and with her paws on Laura’s shoulders started licking every piece of skin she could reach, and when Laura laughed.

Her husband, Deucalion, did not look impressed as he put the tray with tea upon the table and Alyosha, decided, quite uncharacteristically, that he would overcome his shyness and with a growl attacked him in play. Stiles, so surprised by Alyosha attacking something other than Boyd's feet, and then only when his sister already had, burst out laughing. “I am made a mockery in my own home,” he drawled. “Between this one," he patted Alyosha on the head, “and the peacock, Laura, we shall have to decamp.”

“The peacock hates him." Laura confided. “It has chased him to ground several times. If he takes a walk through the grounds it’s not unusual to see him vaulting over hedges.”

“It is a demon," Deucalion said calmly, leaning forward, as much as he could be calm with a puppy trying to grab at his cravat as it swung before its face, to pour the tea, which was sweetened with rose petals, Stiles guessed from the scent of it. “It is determined to drag me into hell with it." He did not sound put out or upset about his ongoing argument with the thing, or even more than slightly calm about the puppy trying to strangle him with his neck tie. Derek might have been inept in society but his sister and her husband were not. “Now, Stiles," he carefully enunciated the name, making sure of the way it fit into his mouth, “all that we know of you is what Derek has told us in his letters, two of which he sent before you were married, and one since, I would not be surprised if more arrive tomorrow. He writes most copiously, I think he finds it easier to express himself with a pen.”

“He is able to edit himself," Laura agreed, “he often writes his letter making many changes, crosses his lines out and writes them over and over, then copies the finished effect out. My brother wishes that he might do that with speech as well. You may find he writes you many letters.”

"I do not know why he married me," Stiles said.

“You are adorable," Laura said, “and I am sure that he did so that no other could snatch you away, I am sure he made a strong case to your parents.”

“A rumor was beginning that Peter was trying to win my hand," Stiles said, “perhaps my father decided that Derek would be a better match.”

Laura laughed again. “My uncle marry? It is more likely that William Herschel discovers that Uranus is not a new planet and is, in fact, the face of God and that the work was in truth the work of his sister.”

“Is he not an alpha?” Deucalion asked, “in which he will never admit he needed help or that he was wrong.”

“Are you not an alpha?” Stiles asked him.

“How do you think I can be so sure.” He answered, absently scratching the puppy behind its ear as it chewed on the lace of his cravat.


	16. in which Stiles gets a visitor

Stiles was surprised the next day when he slept late in the comfortable bed that Laura had arranged for him. She shared the master bedroom with her husband, and although she offered it to him, as the new Marquis, and thus the house was his, he refused it and took one of the guest rooms which had a lovely view of the rose garden and fields. It had a larger window, being in a newer part of the house, which still made it Tudor as opposed to medieval. The house had its own ghosts, creaks and noises, doors that did not close the way they should and drafts, but unlike the London house he had no question about exploring it, with Vasilisa at his heels, chasing after tassels on tablecloths as they caught in breezes, and almost tripping one of the maids who was walking down the corridor with an armful of laundry.

Her brother elected to stay on Laura's lap, draped across her like a rug, content with his lot in life, and had then decided to stay with her and her husband, walking sedately beside Deucalion as he carried his wife to bed, her chair unable to manage the staircase, as wide as it was, and spent the night in their room, but Vasilisa took up enough of the bed on her own.

There was a letter from Derek, scented with clove and leather and something clean and fresh that Stiles could not recognise, but his words were polite but sweet and somewhat adoring,he thought of what Laura had said about how he drafted and re-drafted his letters and this letter felt like that, like he had decided and practised all of the things he wanted to say, but spent the majority of the letter reassuring Stiles of his affection, and especially for that exuberance with which he lived his life, he said “in Bath when you laughed you looked so full of mirth that you might throw yourself from the very chair and I had to restrain myself from darting forward to catch you, but you were insensible to my dilemma, and in that moment I knew that I would take you to marriage. You sat in the lamplight with the rowan blossoms about you like a creature from Shakespeare's plays and I felt my heart in my mouth at the very thought of you.”

Not knowing how to react Stiles decided that he would respond later.

The second letter was from Lady Vesey, scented with her signature medicinal scent of orange blossom, rosemary and old rose, he had received letters from her before, arranging meetings with Allison, confirming the details of chaperones for museum visits and the like, he had never really given them much care, passing them to Madame Morrell. He had no idea why she would be writing to him and assumed it was simply a congratulation upon his marriage, usually in the hope of being invited to their first engagement as a married couple.

_My Lord Marquise,_

_I am writing to you in congratulations of your marriage, but also with a terrible duty and to request of you a small favor. I shall start with the favor that you might think of it more kindly when I left Bath a certain wallet of my documents was caught up in the belongings of your uncle, and I was hoping that if you come across it that you might return it to me. I have also lost a jacket, which is black as I am still in half mourning, but the Whittemore staff believe it has gone with Lady Bryant and I have written to her requesting its return._

_The loss of the wallet is my own fault, I foolishly left it in the library after I had completed my letter writing and I think it was gathered up by mistake when your uncle followed me at the desk. I would not ask if the documents were not important, but now that onerous task is complete I must follow it with another._

_There is the most terrible rumor circulating London and I wished to simply make you aware of it that you might do what is necessary to counter it. I have heard that your father caught your new husband leaving your bedroom after a tryst and that he discovered that you had been allegiant in arranging your trysts over several months and that you are with child, and that is why you have decamped to the country. I know, from my own affection for you from the relationship with you that I share with my dear Allison, that it is untrue._

_I, myself, saw the way that the Marquess was besotted with you, and how it was your first meeting, I am sure that your dower, which was the talk of London, was not something that was considered for the Marquess has great personal wealth without it. I do know my Allison believed you would be married long before she because of it, but had thought it would be a fortune hunter like Major Raeken who won your heart. It was lovely to see the way the two of you fell in love and I am sure that you are enjoying your time away from society for the simple joy of learning each other. It is only through time and patience that one finds pleasure in marriage._

_Love is a star guiding ships at sea, but one still needs learn to sail._

Not intending to take advice on a happy marriage from Kate Argent of all people Stiles did not finish the letter. There was one from his father, telling him simply sundries of his life, including a long description of a rather fine suckling pig that he had had in an inn on the way back to London, the letter was, as many of his letters were, gravy spotted as if trying to share the fine roasted pork with his son. It also ended dobre byc as if to reassure Stiles he was loved and his father still cared for his behavior.

After reading his correspondence, done whilst he was breaking his fast, he dressed for the day, like a well to do beta, for he had little patience for the fripperies of omega dress, although he did like jewels. He went down the stairs to the main parlor where Deucalion was reading the paper but put it down when he saw Stiles and invited him to share his coffee. "It is the least I can do," he explained, “I appear to have stolen your dog.”

"I think,” Stiles corrected him, “that he has stolen you. We are rarely the owners of dogs, but are in fact alive to make their life easier.”

“So young, and yet so wise, most do not come to such a realization so early in life.”

“It is the value of an omega's education," Stiles answered, taking one of the pastries from the plate, taking a large bite with a shrug. “I speak four languages and read both Latin and Greek, my friend Lydia is even more learned, but she is not as accomplished with the harpsichord or crafts, her watercolors are a sight to see, and not to be displayed, but she understands concepts of natural philosophy that I can not follow.”

"I am a simple soldier," Deucalion answered, “I am also unable to understand concepts of natural philosophy, but I do understand trajectory and ballistics, but if such education could explain how to talk to my wife without driving her to rage and throwing things I would be grateful to learn them.”

“If she is driven to such anger," Stiles said, taking the air of a wise and ancient sage, “it is simply because of her love for you, but sometimes you should not be so sly.”

“So scandalous an idea," Duke said without raising his eyes from the paper, “I shall, of course, take it under advisement, I do enjoy those rows, they get the blood pumping and add delight to our bedroom sport.” At that he did look up, smirking at Stiles. “You are in this paper," he said, “apparently a certain Lord based in Essex who is known to be shy in society has taken an omega bride after being caught leaving his bedroom, and now they wonder if a January babe might be on the way.”

“If so we shall have to write to the Vatican," Stiles drawled, “for they tend to want to know about immaculate conceptions.”

Deucalion barked out a laugh, “I think we shall keep you and send Derek to London, you are witty in ways that he is not. His humor is much more dry. Do you have plans for the day, or will you join Laura in the gardens? Ennis pushes her chair but she maintains the roses herself.”

“I thought I might go sea bathing." Stiles told him, “it is a pleasant day and I do not wish to see it wasted.”

“There is not much of a beach," Duke told him, “you might be better bathing in the pond, simply because the sea here is mostly muck, the locals call the village Maldon on the mud, often after sea bathing you will need to bathe again, but I can certainly have staff make up a picnic if you do wish to go a little further to where the water is less mud.”

Stiles told him he would consider it but he would not leave until later in the afternoon, and he wanted to spend what remained of the morning wandering the grounds to make sure he knew his way around them, and it would be good for the dogs to have a long walk. Duke told him he was free to come and go as he pleased, but if he wished to go into town it would certainly be polite to let them know. Stiles agreed that it would be and that he would.

—-

Stiles was sprawled out on the grass with the puppies gamboling about through the trees in a strange game of chase where both were determined to catch the other whilst not being caught, occasionally barking at the other, as Stiles smiled and laughed at them.

Laura’s manservant was Ennis, who was the sort of alpha that natural philosophers would use in illustration to show the very epitome of the alpha physiognomy. He stood taller than Stiles, who was nearly six foot tall, and as broad as a wardrobe, with a head, shaved because his hairline was receding, shaped like a bullet, making the points of his alpha ears entirely obvious, and either birth or years of working outside had tanned his skin the colour of walnuts, but both Laura and Duke assured him that he was harmless, unless riled. He was dangerous, but loyal, and would only react if those he held dear were threatened. He had served with Duke on the peninsula but used his bulk now to help Laura where her chair would not allow her such freedoms.

He approached with a guest, “There are you are, omega." What surprised him was the voice was that of Jackson Whittemore, “I covered half of England to look for you.”

“I have hardly hidden, Jackson, can I ask why it is you are disturbing me?”

“Where is she?” Jackson looked road weary and covered in dust like he had ridden to Beeleigh direct from Bath without stopping on the way except to change his horse.

“Where is who, Jackson? I am here with my sister in law, Lady Winterbourne, she is the only woman here unless you are looking for one of the maids, Mister Boyd's wife is said to be charming, but I am new here and do not know her well yet,”

“Don't be obtuse, Stilinski.”

“Hale," Stiles corrected him sharply. "I am married, remember, I married at your house, although I do remember you did not attend, there was something else that needed your attention." Stiles didn't move to stand up, but Ennis looked about ready to commit violence upon Jackson for his manner.

“You know perfectly well what I am talking about, you helped her, I know you did.”

“How can I have helped someone when I have no idea what it is you are talking about? Who did I help? How? I’ve been busy, I’ve not spoken to anyone unless you mean Lady Vesey, who wrote me this morning.”

“Lydia, Stiles? Where is she?”

“I have no idea," Stiles answered, “I have not spoken to her since I left Bath, in the furor caused by you as I remember, she was angry at you, and refused to speak to me about what it was that you had done. If I can help, I will, for her sake.”

“I should shake the answers from you,” Jackson growled at him.

Ennis cracked his knuckles, “try it," he growled.

“Your gorilla will not always be present, don't think I don’t know what you set up with McCall to help her escape.”

"I have no idea what you're talking about.” He enunciated it carefully, sounding out each syllable to make his point clear.

"I know you told McCall to charm her so she would turn away from me because you knew I would be jealous.” Jackson answered, “you knew I'd argue with him, and call him out,” Stiles looked at Ennis as if asking him if that made sense to him either, because it made none to Stiles, “and I know you asked him to deny it and say that he intended his affection for Vidama Argent, and it took most of the eloquence of Major Raeken that it went no further than fists, and not pistols, because you knew I would be so angry at McCall for his presumption that I would turn my eye from her.”

“Presumption?” Stiles asked, “if you wished to own a person there are places in the Americas where such remains legal, but we are British, you cannot buy a person, Jackson, if she has run from you, ruining her own reputation, as it does sound like she has, when you think so little of her. An alpha might buy a horse, but he may not buy a person.”

“She was promised to me.” Jackson shouted, his spittle came away from his mouth in flecks, and his face was red, “I asked and her parents agreed.”

“Did she?” Stiles asked sharply, “did you ever ask her?”

“An omega is to be cherished,” Ennis said, surprised at the conversation, “most alphas never get to marry one, and should be approached as such." Stiles was surprised by how eloquent Ennis could be, “if you think of one as no more than a thing to be purchased why not just grab one on the street, lift her skirts and force her to marry you that way.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Jackson snarled, well he tried to but it ended when the fist struck him hard in the jaw. What surprised Stiles was it was his own hand that did it.

Jackson took a step back holding his face, “she loves me.” He shouted at Stiles.

“If she loved you she would not have run from you. Perhaps you would do better to ask McCall if you are so sure she has run away with him.”

“She would not do such a thing without telling you, I know that she tells you everything, I know that you are the one who whispers poisonous secrets in her ear about me.”

Stiles sighed, and swept the last of the grass from his pants, “I have never had to, Whittemore," Stiles answered, “you believe that you deserve the best because your parents are rich, you think that that entitles you to everything you want, and you wanted her, and so you bought her parents debts so she would have to be yours. Had you just asked her she might have said yes, but you could not take the risk, could you? You don't even want her, you want the idea of her, an omega, one of the most favoured in society, just so you could have her on your arm, you did not want her, just the diamond of the _ton_ , my father once told me if you came searching for my hand he would knock the teeth from your perfect head. At the time I had thought him harsh because you're just a vain peacock, aren’t you, but there is little worse in this world than an alpha scorned, isn't that the line. I am going inside, Jackson, I think you might need to come inside and calm down, I shall have tea made, perhaps something to place upon your jaw, I would hate for you to bruise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the puppies look like this
> 
> http://rlv.zcache.ca/borzoi_puppy_looking_at_camera_postcard-rf516e51e67f54867949b233863646a12_vgbaq_8byvr_324.jpg
> 
> and will grow up to look something like this
> 
> http://www.soozoo-borzois.uk/images/Myshka10monthsCropped.JPG
> 
> the dog equivalent of a scarecrow with a big long snoot, perfect for sneaking sausages


	17. in which Laura offers her hospitality to an ungrateful Jackson

Laura had the patience and kindness of a saint and the temper of a dragon with a sore tooth. She invited Jackson to spend the night and continue his search in the morning, because, she explained, it would certainly allow him to search the grounds and make sure his errant bride was not in their estate. Jackson reacted with his usual grace, a sort of expectation that this was his due, and a snide comment about her scar. She was lain on a chaise with a blanket over her legs as she stitched lace to a baby’s gown, which she put down when she addressed him. She was using a hoop which was wedged under the useless arm so she could hold it up as she worked.

“You are lucky I have simple Christian decency," she said calmly, “or I would tell my husband to put you out on the street and not even allow you to stable your horse, although it is not the horse's fault that you might be the most unpleasant man in England.”

Jackson looked like he had been slapped and stood back with an “I have never," expression.

“My manners preclude me from throwing you out into the night," she continued, “but do not think that they will save you from the lash of my tongue. You barge into my house without so much as a warning, I have forgiven you that as I understand that you are bereft looking for your missing bride, but I am informed that you approached my new brother with the promise of violence, because you have decided, in error, I might add, that he had aided her in your flight. Now that I have spent some time, albeit a short period, in your company, I think if he had he was in the right, because, you, sir, are an insufferable and hideously rude.”

"I do not have to stay to be so abused.” Jackson was puffed up like the peacock in the yard.

"No,” she said as she lifted her work with a smile, “you do not. You are certainly free to leave, there is an inn not far from here. You might make it before dark.”

“there is rain coming, wife," Deucalion said, coming in with a tray of tea, the china rattling as he placed it down, “it is at least an hour’s ride, and the inn is not the most pleasant.”

“You sound like you yourself have had use of it,” Stiles said, crossing his legs in front of him, the puppies had found a large pool of sunlight with a rug underneath it and were now snoring, Alyosha kicking his feet as he chased something, possibly Duke's cravat which he had stolen for himself and now kept in his bed like a comfort blanket. Vasilisa looked much more refined in her sleep, curled into a little white ball.

“It is where I was based as I pressed my suit on my dear wife," Deucalion said pouring the tea. He had an elegance to it.

“Who would want to marry a cripple?” It was out of Jackson's mouth before anyone could countenance someone actually saying it.

“Why would anyone not?” Deucalion answered in a voice like ice, “and she was not when we married, she was, and remains, quite vibrant, but was a determined horsewoman. She fell from her horse, and I feared that I would lose her, in those days I knew without question that I would take her in any form that I could for I could not bear the idea of going through my life without her. I knew I would marry her the first time I saw her smile, but I knew I would die for her if it meant that she would live another day.”

Stiles had known that Duke could be eloquent, for Laura had told him so, but this was the first time he had seen it.

“But how do you?” Jackson made a gesture that could have meant anything but was probably meant to be obscene.

"Often," Laura said, “at least once a day.” She sounded flip in her response, “we are, as you might imagine, quite enamored of each other.”

“But,” Jackson began.

Laura smoothed her hand over her belly revealing the baby bump there through the fabric, “is it that only young and healthy people might enjoy their bed sport.” she asked. “Duke, my love, if he continues I give you my permission to call him out.”

Jackson scoffed, possibly out of shame that caused him to rebel. “I am an excellent shot.”

“I was an army sniper." Deucalion said calmly, “and the victor of six duels, it has been a long time since I killed a man, but if you wish, my love, I certainly shall remove this upstart from this world, and we do have to plant that chrysanthemum bush, I am told in the east they put the bodies of murdered men underneath them to make the flowers a deeper red.”

“That would be lovely,” she said, reaching forward to take her tea, the whole thing looked to have been borne of much practice so she did not even dislodge her sewing from her lap as she did so. “I do so like chrysanthemums.”

Jackson wisely, for perhaps the first time in his life, remained silent and took his tea without complaint. Stiles simply grinned into his tea cup. When Jackson left to freshen himself up, Laura burst out laughing. “Oh dearest," she said, “that was delightful fun.”

“What an ass," Duke agreed, “I think we should let loose the peacock in his bedchamber this evening.”

Laura let out a peal of laughter. When Stiles was a child his mother had told him stories of the queen of Solomon, an omega who was known for her beauty but was considered plain and even homely until she laughed, and when she did she was the most beautiful woman in all creation. His mother had told him that alphas traveled all over the world to see her and found her plain until she laughed,and she laughed easily and often, and in doing so she became the loveliest thing they had ever seen. She had been many things, a sage, and a statesman and a Queen in her own right, her son had been a prophet and she was given a great treasure, the sort that kingdoms were built around because she was wise and beautiful when she laughed.

As a child Stiles hadn’t understood it, but now watching Laura as she laughed he did understand, because when one first saw Laura they saw the crippled limbs, the scar on the side of her face, not how her skin was like milk and how careful she was with her black hair, or how thick her lashes. Before her accident, she must have been one of the diamonds of the ton, for she was beautiful and wise and rich, but it was Deucalion who had won her, and he was a low-level lord and a soldier, one who had served in the King’s Own regiment.

He understood as well why it was that Duke so adored her, for she had had the conversation with Jackson, which had given her every right to be angry and to drive him from her house but instead she had set him up to look a fool that she might laugh at him - which she had done.

—-

Laura’s maid was a dark haired beta girl called Katy Carr who was endlessly cheerful and not as good at her duties as she as a person. She was the sort of girl who caught her hems on nails, and gestured with her entire body, whilst she stuffed hair pins in her mouth and tried her best to talk around them. Laura admitted she did not need as much help as one would think, for she had little tolerance for the fripperies of court, and here at the seaside, where she had moved for her health, she did not need cosmetics, but she did need help in the bath, and Duke to place her in and take her from the tub. So she shared Katy with Stiles, although like her, he didn’t need much care, as his hair was short, and he didn't bother with cosmetics other than a violet and clay face mask in the bath sometimes, for he sometimes, corresponding with his menstruation, had terrible breakout of his skin, but it was nothing that a little care could not prevent.

So he had Katy help him with his toilet, taking note of which oils and unguents he preferred that she might get them for him, which were his favored soaps for skin and hair, and dealing with the vendors, and making sure that he never ran out.

There were some of the nobility that never used the same bar of soap twice, she confided, but she knew a lady in Chelmsford who could certainly provide him with what he needed, including liquor of witch hazel for his breakout. She was solicitous and kind and Stiles wondered if he could sway her into his service allowing Laura to get the new maid that they had contacted the agency about hiring.

She turned down the bed, with a hot brick between the sheets that they were not cold when he climbed in and placed his bedsocks underneath them, so when she took out the brick she helped him into a pair of socks that were toasty warm. She had found him a nightrail that covered him from collar to toes with a thick muslin and a high collar, after he had confessed that he felt the cold keenly, even for an omega, who were also cold, and brushed his hair with sage and salt until it fell soft against his head, chattering all the while.

“I do wonder about Mister Whittemore," she said as she pulled the blankets about Stiles, wearing both nightrail and banyan to bed, he had quite stolen his husband's red wool one and found a few places where the fabric had worn through to a sort of mesh, so he was sure Derek would not mind if he fetched him another from Chelmsford, but it was warm and broken in, and the night, whilst not chill, was a little cool. Stiles could certainly remove the extra if he needed to when he got too hot. “I understand that he is angry at the loss of his bride, but he was very rude to her Ladyship, her Ladyship might seem unhurt but she is still angry at herself for her injury.”

Stiles sighed before he answered. “Whittemore is an ass, it is his nature. All of his life anything he wished was purchased for him by his parents. It is good for him, although not the rest of us, that he hears the word no once in a while.”

“My Aunt Izzy would have boxed him around the ears, no doubt about that," Katy said, and then realized who she had said it to and went to apologize.

“As would my Tata." Stiles agreed, “sent to his bed without supper, only bread and butter, a few times and he might not learn the world is his to command. He was a terrible child, all I want, and I’m the winner.”

“Why did you consort with him?” Katy pressed, ”if it is not too much for me to ask.”

“My father is not one for society," Stiles answered, “but when the Whittemores threw a party for the children of society to meet and play he thought it a fine idea, so we went. This would happen at least once a year, a week in their estate in Bath allowed to be children and be dirty and play. I met most of the friends I have now in those times, Jackson was there as well. He never let us play with his toys, or his pony, and if we put on a show he had to be the star. Eventually, we just ignored him and excluded him, which of course made him worse, and made his mama dote on him more. Then when he decided he would marry it had to be Lydia because she had always had more time for him than anyone else, and instead of asking her to marry him he found out her parents had debts and his parents bought them out, on the expectation that she would marry Jackson.”

“Sounds like he still needs a boxing around the ears." Katy said, “or a few years on the continent. My man was a bit of a pig until he went to the continent, came back with the nasty shot out of him by fear and hard living, did wonders for him, I would not have married him before.”

“If he went to the continent his parents would buy him a fine commission and he'd be an ass in Portugal.” Katy laughed and went to tug closed the bed curtains, “would be better for us, though.”

“Good night, my lord," she said with a bow. “Ring the bell if you need," she was cut off by a frightful cacophony outside the window, causing Stiles to climb from his bed to see what it was that was making the terrible cacophony.

What he saw caused him to laugh out loud. There were a few braziers around the garden, but the moon was full and so it was easy to see what was happening below, where Jackson was running at full speed, shouting obscenities chased by a pair of geese and a peacock, which had it's tail fully risen as it ran behind him, shrieking and cawing as the geese honked, their heads snaking out like spear thrusts only a step or two behind the alpha as he ran, knowing full well that if they caught him it would not end well for challenging their superiority.

He laughed until his sides hurt and he thought he might pee. He considered going to see if Laura was still awake that he might share, then decided even if she was he did not want to see her husband ready for bed. It could wait until the morning, but he wanted to tell someone, so he went to his desk, lengthened the wick to make the light brighter and opened his inkwell and pulled out a piece of parchment to write to his husband.

This caused a small problem for he had no idea how to address him, would the letter be addressed to “Dear Husband, Dearest husband, my beloved husband, Dear Derek, Derek, my absentee lord. All or none of them applied and he had no idea how to proceed. He wanted to tell Derek about Jackson's misfortune, which judging by the noise had moved to another part of the garden but was not yet finished.

“ _Love_ ," he wrote. It was the pet name that Derek used for him, and perhaps with time it would almost be true. " _I had decided not to write to you with no idea where it will go, for Boyd has been silent on the matter no matter how I press. I was, no I am, angry, for I find you inconstant, you tell me that nothing will wrest you from my arms and then leave before I awake. Your reasoning must be good indeed, or I shall continue to not speak to you. I have nothing else to withhold to punish you._

_However I have seen something so perfect, so sublime I have to share it with someone and as most are abed there is no one to share it with but Laura’s maid, Katy, and you, so the letter becomes inevitable, despite my hurt and anger._

_I have just seen Jackson Whittemore chased around the gardens of Beeleigh by a very determined peacock, with two geese in fast attendance._

_And yes, husband, it was worth breaking my angry silence to share it with you.”_


	18. in which the prodigal returns

The following five days had a sort of heady ease. The days were hot and lazy, but not so hot that they were uncomfortable. There was a cool breeze from the estuary that caught the rose bushes so by the time it hit the lawns it was sweet with the scent like a phantom that curled around the old house. Stiles took to lying under the shade of a giant spruce, far from the predations of the peacock, who occasionally gave him a side eye if the puppies got too close, before he called them back to him.

He started taking bottles of sweet apple cider out to drink from during the days, it was sweet with fruit and delicious with the sharp white cheese that the servants brought out with twice baked Italian biscuits. Vasilissa liked to wedge them between her paws and gnaw on them, where Alyosha hadn’t managed that and instead chased his around, barking at it, whilst Stiles laughed watching them.

Once Vasilissa finished hers she curled into the open vee of his legs, watching her brother stuggle with an amused deference, showing the house manners her breed were known for, the calm reassurance that she was a benevolent goddess that as long as her whims were met in a reasonable time and fashion was content to look down upon her subjects. Alyosha prefered to chase the wildlife until they looked at him or moved and then run back to the safety of his sister.

Unless the prey in question was Deucalion who, for some reason, Stiles could not understand, did not scare the pup at all.

They were easy, lazy days of being slightly drunk, as much from the rich sunlight and the breeze as the cider he was drinking by the pint, but not enough to be foxed, and then suppers with Laura and Duke, that were often made up of lots of little dishes, some of which were spicy, as Duke told them about his time in India and how it had soured his taste for gin.

His entire stories seemed to feature being hot, sweaty, miserable and pissed at the mail service for not bringing letters from Laura who was, at the time, also being courted, by another alpha, who clearly could not see her worth, but had the impressive virtue of being in England, when Duke himself was not.

He had things to say about that alpha, never naming him directly, but none of them were polite, and each one of them made Laura cackle into her supper. At one point she brayed fish soup over herself, which just made Duke quirk an eyebrow as if to suggest that not only had he done it deliberately but he questioned the effort he had put into courting her.

He was charming, handsome, and just a little smug, right up until he threw a roll at her, revealing the two of them were just as delightful as the other.

They were affectionate, and because of that, he gave them space. He neither wanted to intrude or see Deucalion naked, or, as he had on one occasion found Laura with her one working hand in the fall of his pants, which he had not needed to see. At all. Ever.

So he was leaning against the spruce, drinking cider, watching the ducks bob on the pond, hearing in his head Laura and Duke bickering over whether it was a pond, or too big to be a pond and was therefore a pool, but both agreed it was too small to be a lake, when the shadow fell across him.

It was Ennis.

Whenever someone blocked out the sun it was liable to be Ennis or Boyd, and Stiles knew Boyd was appreciating a day off with his wife.

“Milord," he said, he insisted on calling Stiles that no matter how many times Stiles told him to drop the formalities. He called Duke Major or sir. Stiles had learned from the other staff that Ennis was a widower, who had married a woman in India called Kali, but that she had never made the return to England. It was considered not polite to ask about it, so Stiles never did. He didn't ask Ennis much, because he was so large, he imposed him a little, and he wasn't quite sure where he fell on the household heirarchy, because he wasn’t Duke’s valet, who would be about equal with Weasley, the butler, but he wasn’t a footman either. He wasn't a member of the family, but although he deferred to Weasley, Weasley rarely included him in his orders for the house. So there was the household and there was Ennis and it was a bit of a mystery to Stiles how they fit together. “You have a guest in the main parlour.”

Stiles stood up and brushed the spruce needles off his pants, “thank you, Mr Ennis," he said, “can you make sure the dogs get taken to the kitchen and make sure they’re fed. I don't think our guests need to be put through Vasilisa’s exuberance.”

Ennis grinned, “by your will, my lord.”

—-

Stiles ran his hands through his hair as he walked along the cloister to the main parlor, where Ennis had told him that his guest was waiting.

The main parlour was usually Laura's domain. Since the accident she complained she felt the cold worse than she had as an omega, which she declared was incredible, so she liked the giant medieval fireplace which stood as tall as Stiles, and perhaps as wide as he was tall, and was always stacked for a large fire, and because of the panelling it kept the heat, although the room was darker than many of the others. There were large old couches, with wooden panels that were fixed by ropes around handles, and then stuffed with cushions. Laura was often taken from her gouty chair, which gave her some mobility, to these couches, which had piles of blankets about them, even in the pleasant May weather, and a bear skin fur, the one, Stiles believed, from the carriage.

Stiles’ guest stood by the fireplace and when Stiles opened the door to enter, the figure turned and in a few long strides had crossed the room and taken Stiles into his arms, before burying his nose into the short hairs at Stiles’ temple. "I missed you so much.” Derek said.

"I am not speaking to you,” Stiles said but clung on as tightly. “I am so angry at you.”

“I am so angry at the circumstances that tore us apart.” Derek answered, clutching Stiles like he was the one who kept leaving; like Stiles was the one, who if he let go, would vanish.

“I am angry that you have never told me what it was.”

“Tomorrow," Derek said, “just let me.” He was breathing Stiles in, taking in loud breaths through his nose, as if he could, by virtue of doing so, inhale his very being, scent and spirit. His hands were hard and hot against Stiles' back. “Tomorrow," he repeated, please, just give me this. I've been on horseback for days, thinking only of you.”

“Then maybe you shouldn't have left me without so much as a word.” Stiles was angry, he had drunk enough cider that his tongue was loosened in his anger. “You abandoned me to your family without even an introduction.

"I left a letter.” Derek protested.

“that I did not receive. You promised you would not leave me again, that we might talk, and I wake to find you halfway to lord alone knows where.”

“Edinburgh.” Derek blurted out.

Stiles took a step back, his arms still held by Derek's hands which had slipped along his shoulders to his elbows. “And you wrote me a letter a day and not once did you tell me where you were or what you were about. There was a long paragraph about a rain storm outside your window, but your business, after all why would you need to tell me of such, after all I’m only your spouse.” Derek went to say something, he looked unkempt, still wearing a lot of the road dust in the fabric of his coat and there was a mud splash on his pants. He stunk of horse sweat. So it was clear that he had come straight from the stable and that Boyd would be in conniptions over the state of him. His beard had not been trimmed or even given more than a cursory comb through in the week of his absence.

"I could not simply go to Chelmsford for shopping for although you had put me on your accounts they had no evidence of that and I could have been anyone. Your family accepted me entirely on Boyd’s word, and then Jackson comes to harangue me and you were not here.”

"I," Derek began but Stiles had found a comfortable stride for his anger.

“He believed I had married you simply to provide cover for Lydia to run from him, she believed that we were working in concert but I was here and I did not know, and Harey, she is convinced that you married me entirely for my dowry, and someone is telling London that we were married so suddenly because apparently we have been trysting for months and I am with child. London is to watch for a new years babe,” he paused in his harangue, “and you were not here, I did not know where you were, and I spent the time dreaming up new scenarios for your absence, that you were running from me, from this marriage that you wanted, or that you were with a mistress or a lover, or....”

Derek silenced him with a kiss, for a long moment Stiles melted into it, opening his mouth to allow Derek to deepen it, then Stiles stepped back and slapped him.

To his credit, he did not slap him hard, certainly not with the force that he had punched Whittemore, but Derek certainly felt it. “I am very angry with you and you do not get to distract me with kisses.”

"I like kissing you.”

“and you shall like kissing me better when I am pleased enough to let you kiss me.”

“You are magnificent when you are angry," Derek was smiling at him.

Stiles’ eyes flashed and he snorted his rage through his nose. “Which is good because I am angry, husband, I do not know how else to express how I felt, for I was left to suffer these things, small as they were, on my own for them.”

"I would rather have been with you." Derek said, “my journey to Edinburgh was awful, it waited until Matt," Matt was one of the London footmen who had gone with Derek, “and I were halfway between shelter before it rained, heavy and the skies rolled with thunder, bad weather followed us from London all the way across the border, and we were there only a night before we returned for I did not want to leave you overlong.”

“You could have brought me to you.” Stiles told him abruptly, “I am not made of sugar, husband, I shall not melt if I get wet.”

Derek brayed out a laugh, delighted at the comment he made. “Time was of the essence," Derek admitted with a smile, “I did not know if I could ride hard with you for several days, or like Matt, you would merely complain the whole way, or be unable to continue after a single day. Next time I must dash across the country with little notice I shall be sure to take you with me.”

“Yes, you shall.”

Stiles hadn't noticed at first how Derek's hands had slid down the outside of his arm to take his hands, “I shall never be so long without you again.” Without Katy to take care of his skin, the way she did Stiles, his hands were rough and dry, but they were not much larger than Stiles’ own and he was rubbing the pad of his thumb over the knob of Stiles’ own. It was more soothing than he had suspected. It was weird but having Derek holding his hands made his chest warm.

"It might take until supper until I decide to forgive you," Stiles told him.

“Most wise,” Derek agreed. “I have been most remiss in leaving you behind.”

“Too bloody right," Stiles said sagely, but let Derek pull him back into his arms. “and I shall hold you to your promise that you will tell me tomorrow if I wake and find you gone again I am hiring an assassin.”

Derek laughed again, he seemed overwhelmed with happiness that he was here, and that wasn't helping Stiles with his temper. “Can I come to you tonight?” Derek asked softly, “just to sleep, just," he sighed looking for the words. “When the weather was awful, when it was cold and I was tired I thought of you there in my arms. My arms ached without you.”

Derek's letters had been charming. Had Stiles been courted by letters he would have fallen hard, and possibly been more disappointed by how awkward Derek was in real life, but then there were moments when the man who had written those letters found confidence in what he said and could be as charming. Those moments were few and far between, but when they did happen Stiles heart stuttered.

Of all the things that Stiles thought of his marriage, something that he had had eight days without his husband to ruminate on, one of which he was certain was that Derek liked to watch him. Even before the wedding Derek had watched him and noticed, he had been kind, and attentive, but he had seen tiny details that Stiles himself had not been aware of. He had noticed how Stiles scrubbed his hand over his head when he was nervous, or how he chewed upon his lips when he was nervous. He had written pages describing Stiles’ hands and the breadth of his shoulders.

He had spoken about politics and the weather and so many things, except for telling Stiles what it was he had been about. That Derek adored Stiles, he was sure of, however, he simply did not know if he liked him.

“Now you are going to get someone, Boyd is in town enjoying a hard won day of liberty, to pour you into the bath for you stink. I am not going to be polite about it, you smell like a horse that fell into a ditch and was covered in nightsoil that it rolled around in, and if you have any intent of coming to me tonight you will certainly bathe, and tidy up your beard, you are like a wild man.” Stiles was doing his best impression of Lydia, because reacting like she would it allowed him to process his own reactions without making a fool of himself.

Derek grinned and in that moment, with the full force of that grin turned upon him, Stiles’ legs almost buckled, then as the grin became a little impish. Then he darted forward again and kissed Stiles.

“Get off," Stiles said pushing him away, “you smell like a dead thing, make it look like you are a human being under that road dust and travel sweat and I might consider kissing you.”

Derek grinned at him. “I look forward to it.” And strangely, Stiles was looking forward to it too.

 


	19. in which the couple get closer

With Boyd in town with his wife, it fell to Deucalion's valet to aid Derek with his bath. Duke’s valet, Jared, was a nervous boy who was generally unhappy with life and happy that Duke was mostly self-sufficient and whose job was mostly making sure that Duke's boots were clean and polished and his clothes were hung with lavender and cedar sachets and other than that staying out of the way.

So Stiles wasn't really surprised when Jared came out of the room, pushing up his spectacles, crying "I can't, I’m sorry, milord, I just can't.”

Duke was more patient than Stiles who was about to tease the boy, “What is it, Jared?”

“His lordship wants me to cut his hair, but if I do then Boyd will be unhappy and until it's grown out he will point out every flaw, and I dare not, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Stiles stood up. “I’ll do it, Jared," he said. “You just make sure he has something to wear when we're done.”

When Stiles bathed it was in a large copper tub that was in a small room that had, at some point, been a cupboard, water was brought up via a contrivance called a dumb waiter, that could then bring the dirty water back down to be poured into the middens, not just tipped out of the window. However, Derek was in a large round barrel bottom with both legs hung over the edge and his head back, with is neck resting on a rolled up towel as the water steamed around him.

“You should not be so mean to Jared," Stiles said, shrugging off his jacket, Derek turned his head to look at him, the image of comfortable ease in his hot bath, and offered Stiles his wolfish grin.

“Come to join me in the bath?” Derek asked.

“Jared is scared that if he turns you into something other than the wild man of a Ratcliffe novel that Boyd might smother him in his sleep, you should not make the poor boy cry. It means Mrs. Boyd will have to get tear stains from Duke's shirts and everyone will be unhappy."

Jared had left his leather roll of tools out, “so I am going to cut your hair," he lifted the small scissors and tested their motion. “Aren’t you worried that I might use this razor to express my rage?”

“Aren't you worried about your omega morals at being in a room with a naked alpha?”

“Oh lord," Stiles said in a very sarcastic tone, “I am overcome with desire, a virile alpha is lying there in soapy water with his cock floating like a duck in the water. How shall I cope, oh my, I am clearly undone.” From the roll, he took a small bottle of oil, uncorked it and checked the smell before shaking some into his hands. “As I recall I was not opposed to the suggestion that we fuck, it was you who wanted me to want you first." The obscenity caused a frisson through Derek, hearing it in Stiles’ mouth because omega were not expected to use profanities, omega were meant to be polite and well spoken, they were meant to blush at the very concept of sex. They were not supposed to say such obscenities, but one of the things that Derek adored about Stiles was that he was not the average omega at all.

“Do you want me?” Derek asked.

“I’m still angry at you." He said, then, with his hands sufficiently oiled, he sat on the edge of the tub to rub the oil into Derek's beard that he might tidy it. Derek took advantage of his precarious position and with his hands around Stiles’ waist tugged him into the water and his lap with an almighty splash. “Is this to prove I will not melt when I get wet?” Stiles asked with an arch eyebrow.

"Perhaps I want to get you wet?” Derek said with an exaggerated leer.

Stiles groaned at the comment. “What has come over you?” he asked, “is it exhaustion from those days you spent on the road with Matt, bad food, lousy beds, you have clearly forgotten yourself.”

"I missed you," he tugged Stiles into his chest, so Stiles’ shoulder was pressed into his armpit. “How was I supposed to sleep without you?”

“You managed just fine for eight and twenty years," Stiles said, but he did lean against his chest and tuck his head under his chin. “You have a wild looking beard to show for it. You look like that hermit the Whittemores hired to live in their folly, and I have to ask if you did this to Jared and that’s why he ran out crying because I cannot say that I care for you grabbing at other men.”

Derek chuckled, “my love for Jared must remain pure," he said, “for Jared is convinced I am going to eat him.”

“Between you and the peacock, it is a wonder he sleeps.” Stiles mused.

“I take offense at that," Derek said, “I am nowhere as mean as that peacock.”

"I doubt Old Nick is as mean as that peacock," Stiles agreed, “it does seem to hate alphas quite fiercely.”

“It keeps out burglars," Derek said, “although there was a case where someone tried to steal it, I think they intended to eat it, it was a year or so ago,”

“Oh, the poor unfortunate soul,” Stiles was chuckling into Derek’s chest. “How fast did he run?”

“As swift as a coursing river,” Derek answered. “We could, of course, have punished him for poaching, but I think he learned his lesson. He lost his pants in the gorse brush, so he was running through the grounds, in just his shirt screaming like he was being murdered, being followed by this blue screaming bird. I imagine it was almost as amusing as watching Whittemore.”

“The geese were flanking him," Stiles said, “it was like they were herding him, reaching forward with their necks and nipping him on the ass. He was black and blue the next day, he had to use the carriage to leave because his ass was just one giant bruise from their nipping.”

“Have they chased the pups?” Derek was resting his chin on the top of Stiles’ head, his hands making soft, slow strokes down his arms, ending at his thigh, but not daring to go further.

“Vasilisa is brave," Stiles said, “I imagine it’s only a matter of time before she learns her lesson, but Alyosha is a coward, the only thing he attacks is Duke.”

“Deucalion Winterbourne was the scourge of the English enemies, whole armies turned back at the word that he was in the line.” Strangely Derek did not sound sarcastic when he said it.

“Really?” Stiles did not believe him, Duke was so calm and amusing he couldn't be as feared as Derek was suggesting.

“They called him _La loup d’enfer._ ” Derek said, and Stiles boggled because he had heard of the Demon Wolf, everyone in London had, his adventures made the daily paper. But if Duke, calm quiet dry and funny Duke was the demon wolf then that meant that Ennis was....

“ _La Hache Du Loup_." Derek said as if he was reading his mind.

“But," Stiles protested, "I saw him have a tea party with some of the servant's children, he was sat on this tiny stool drinking elderflower cordial and water and eating tiny squares of cake and was wearing a lace crown. He can't be the demon wolf's war-axe, it doesn't make sense.”

“I think I would have liked to see that.” Derek told him sagely, “and let me guess, he lay on the floor and let the puppies climb all over him.” Tucked under his chin the way he was Derek couldn't see Stiles’ expression but he knew he was boggling, “he does that. I think he’s more excited about Laura’s pregnancy than she is.”

“Jackson Whittemore picked a fight with La Hache du Loup and I stopped it by punching him. I don't know if that's a good thing or not.” He put both hands on the side of the tub, “now I have to stop you looking like a demon wolf, all scruff," he heaved himself from Derek's lap, “and I’m sure sitting on your lap will be more comfortable when the water we’re sitting in is not getting colder by the moment,”

"I did not know you could cut hair,” Derek said after Stiles had poured more water over his head, soaking his hair to make it easier to cut.

“My father’s valet, Parrish, is very skilled but my father is obstreperous, and for some reason, Parrish can never do it right, so I learned. I might not do as tidy a job as, say, Boyd, but I can certainly make you look presentable. I definitely can give you a clean shave.”

"I like my beard," Derek said, “do you not?”

“I have never seen you without." Stiles admitted, “I personally can not grow one, being an omega, so I can't be asked, do you want one," as he talked he started to cut away the longer hairs, letting them fall into the towel that Derek had wrapped around his neck. “Although you are brave to let me decide when I am so openly vexed with you. I might entice you to shave just to look silly.”

“It would grow back in next to no time," Derek said, “it allows me to make all sorts of bad decisions with my facial hair, I had a period where I had a little goatee like a cavalier.”

Stiles laughed out loud, taking extra care around Derek's ears that the cut is tidy. “I might, at a later date, have to see that.” He combed through the hair before continuing to cut at it with tiny, careful snips. “But for now, not looking like a _bzou_ will suffice.”

Derek did not know what a _bzou_ was but he was willing to agree with the man holding a pair of scissors to his throat.

—-

When Stiles awoke the next morning it was with the overwhelming heat of another human body glued along his back, and a heavy arm draped across his middle. He had, at some point rolled on his side, with Derek nestled behind him like they were a pair of spoons. Derek started to rouse when Stiles tried to extricate himself from under it and the bed , grabbing towards him and making mumbles about it not being time to get up yet, but Stiles had never been a later sleeper.

The evening had not been too late either, both had been tucked in bed by one of the clock, with the lights out, trading lazy kisses and soft caresses that had no end or purpose, until the lazy nature of it caused Stiles to fall asleep. He tended to sleep on his back, splayed out like a starfish, so it might have been possible that Derek had rolled him onto his side that he might press himself against Stiles’ back and pin him in place with his arm.

Stiles had been wearing his favorite night rail, that had a smocked yoke and a high collar covered in stiff tatted lace that he had made himself, cuffs that came past his wrists on leg o' mutton sleeves. The hem of it covered his feet. There was nothing attractive about it, but it was warm, complete with his thick hand knit socks, made by Morrell, and yet when Derek had seen it he hadn't made comment.

The first time they had shared a bed Stiles had worn the night rail that Morrell had made that was made of cotton so fine it was sheer and open entirely down the front but held tight by a ribbon at the neck, with the fine muslin clinging to his curves, such as they were. It was the sort of night rail that would have sent his father into an early grave had he known that Stiles owned it and that his chaperone was the one who had made it.

Derek had looked at him in the ugly moth-eaten wool one he was wearing the same way he had when Stiles stood naked before him with hunger and fascination and the overwhelming desire to touch.

With Derek now burrowing into Stiles’ pillow and the blanket tugged up around under his arm, Stiles shook his head, his husband wasn’t a morning person, or maybe just exhausted from his long journey, so Stiles stripped off his night rail, hanging it over the back of the bed, and used the water on the cabinet to wash, running the cloth over his armpits, over his chest, and down his legs. Before, still naked, uncorking the bottles of perfume on the side to decide which he preferred to wear.

Derek didn't even wake when he dressed so Stiles went in search of breakfast, his correspondence often did not arrive until noon, with the house being so out of the way, so he did not check for it, just settled down, clean and dressed, all by himself, so Katy would certainly rearrange his clothes later, and had a breakfast of fried sausages and bread, content to have a good day.

—-

Deucalion woke to the smashing of glass followed by raised voices but shouted so quickly he wasn't quite sure what he heard, so he pulled a banyan around his shoulders, stuffed his feet into his slippers content to let Laura sleep. The clock on the mantle suggested it was nearly eleven of the clock in the morning and he was not nearly awake enough to summon Jared to dress, so he went to investigate with the hope he might return to bed and interest Laura in morning sex.

Stiles was stood in the main hall with Derek, still wearing a banyan, staring at him and dodging occasional things like teacups that were flung at him from the sideboard beside him. “What the fuck is this?” Stiles yelled and threw a plate, “how did you think I'd fucking react?”

In the hand not currently throwing crockery at his husband Stiles was holding up a white fabric thing, with armholes and straps that, as Duke squinted at it, half blind without his glasses, thought looked like a pregnancy corset.

“It's not for you." Derek whined.

That even Duke, half asleep and on the verge of hilarity, knew was completely the wrong thing to say.

“Not for me?” Stiles’ voice went up at least two octaves as he asked it. Then a deadly quiet took over, “so pray tell, who is it for? A mistress perhaps?”

Derek flinched.

“Stiles, it’s not what you think?” Derek attempted.

“A parcel, addressed to you, from a well-known lingerie maker, containing a pregnancy corset, and it's not what I think?” Stiles' voice was like ice dragged over a knife blade. “So tell me, Derek, what should I think, I mean it's not like half of London doesn't think I’m with child already, but it's just a pregnancy corset. Maybe Harey was wrong and you didn't marry me for my dowry but instead my womb.” Derek flinched. Duke flinched with him.

“I ordered it before I left London."

Stiles uttered the single word that made every alpha’s blood run cold. “Really?” Long and drawn out like a knife slash. “Was that before or after we married.”

“After," Derek snapped it out so quickly it was like it tasted bad. “You have to let me explain.”

“Explain." He dragged it out almost as much as he had the word really. “what could you have to explain, it's not as if you didn't buy me a pregnancy corset.”

"I didn’t," Derek protested, “it's not for you.”

Clearly, he wasn't doing very well in explaining himself.

"If it's not for me,” he asked, “then, pray tell, dear husband, who is it for?”

Derek took a deep breath before he answered. “Lydia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> duh duh DUH! 
> 
> if you're going to have a cliff hanger it has to be a CLIFF HANGER  
> and then take a week off, mwahahahahahahah
> 
> I told you the clues were there if you were paying attention
> 
> https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/288652657337671596/  
> a pregnancy corset


	20. in which Stiles finally gets some answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to increase the rating, it was inevitable at this point, sorry, but it's now an E

Stiles sat on the couch, smoothed out the lines of his pants, and took a deep breath. “Talk." He said in a crisp voice that brooked no complaint.

"I married you because I wanted to," Derek said. He wasn't good at talking “And I wanted to stay with you, but I got word the day after we arrived in London after I had had to sort another of Lahey’s messes, from Peter. He and Lydia were en route to Edinburgh, but that was all the note said. I had thought they had run away together. I knew she was unhappy with Jackson and Peter can be persuasive.”

Stiles nodded. “Go on." His tone, however, had not changed.

“So I left a note for you, on your dresser, that I had to go to Edinburgh on business, I had hoped to have everything smoothed over before her reputation was ruined. When I got there, after a horrid journey, I found it was much more complicated than Peter’s note had let me believe." He shook his head, searching for the words, “They married in secret, this past January, with the knowledge of her chaperone. Peter pressed her to tell her parents, content that he would pay off their debts when they announced her engagement to Jackson. She was trying to break it off, but her parents weren't listening. They had made plans to run away together to the continent in early June, from Edinburgh. But they had to leave early.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow, he looked skeptical. “Then why leave early? Why elope if Lydia wanted to convince her parents?”

“She’s pregnant." Derek said, “she found out when we were in Bath or confirmed it, I don't know, or she didn't have more time. I don't know. I didn't stay in Edinburgh for any real length of time. I demanded they come back to London and told Lydia to order what she needed with my accounts using Peter’s name. The two of them are coming here, on my order, although it means Peter will be pissy for months because he doesn't like being told what to do.”

“He ruined her?” Stiles’ was still angry.

“From what she told me, no. He courted her and knowing her parents would refuse they eloped, marrying by special license. No one knew. I certainly didn’t, and she didn't tell you.”

“Your uncle's an asshole," Stiles said, finally sitting back in the couch cushions.

“Never were truer words spoken.” Derek agreed. "I asked for time to tell you because I had no idea what to say. How am I supposed to tell you that my uncle seduced your best friend into a quick marriage and now she’s with child, and by now they’re probably at Uttoxeter or something on their way here? I was greedy I wanted to spend time with you before this drove a wedge between us, because my uncle's an asshole.”

Stiles started to chew on his lip, catching it between his teeth and worrying it.

“Why didn't she tell me?” He asked, suddenly seeming very small.

“They didn't tell anyone,” Derek told him, he reached out and took Stiles hands in his own. "I got over being pissed on my way. I had time to think it over. Do you want me to go London?” Stiles tilted his head, considering what Derek was offering, it was offering him the opportunity to have time alone, although Derek had been open about wanting to spend time with Stiles.

"I don’t know," Stiles admitted. "I’m," the words were gone so he just shrugged and spread his hands, “Lydia, she always has to one up me, I thought, I’ll be married before her, it was one of the things my father told me to make me happier about the match, Lydia will be green with envy. I thought if god's willing I’ll have children before her too, we’ve been competing since we were babies, and she always wins.”

“She didn't win, she married Peter.” Stiles snorted a laugh. “Laura’s having a baby, and then Peter’s having a baby, do you really want to get caught up in that, babies everywhere so when we have ours no one will see how superior they are because they’ll be desensitized by all the babies.” He lifted Stiles hands to his mouth and kissed the knob of his thumb. “She didn't win.”

He was crouching in front of Stiles and he looked warm and affectionate and gruff, he wasn't good at talking, Stiles knew but he had the most amazing ability to know exactly what Stiles needed to hear. So many thoughts were crashing through Stiles’ head, anger, jealousy, insecurity, fear, and he didn’t know how to untangle them, and there was Derek like this well of calm, who said the things he needed to hear.

“Can we,” Stiles started, “Can we take a walk, together?”

Derek offered him a shy smile. “I’d like that. We’ll just have to be careful of the peacock.”

“I've been giving him gingerbread.” Stiles said quietly, “he might follow me around until he gets some.”

"I ardently admire and adore you," Derek said, before putting a kiss on Stiles' forehead. “And I am so glad I met you, and even more so that I was able to marry you.”

“Then don't keep secrets from me," Stiles said. "I’m your omega, I didn't really get a choice in marrying you, but I want us to be happy, I want to believe you, but you keep secrets, you leave without telling me.”

"I left a note." Derek protested.

"I didn't get it.” Stiles answered, “if you ever have to leave me behind again, for whatever reason, wake me up and tell me.”

  
Derek agreed that he would.

—-

The English summer did not have the beauty that people believed it to from novels and such, instead, it had periods of brightness, blistering heat and heavy brief storms where the sky rumbled and flashed but the heavy winds weren’t strong enough to do more than shake the treetops. As they walked along, Stiles chattering the storm rolled in off the sea, and with a laugh, Stiles threw his head back and let the rain slick his hair back, before shrugging off his jacket and vest so they fell to the floor and the thick splats of rain started to slick to his skin. “Come on," he said, tugging at Derek's jacket.

“What are we doing?” Derek asked as Stiles pulled at the front of his jacket, before slipping it down his shoulders.

“Getting wet,” Stiles told him and grinned. His hands went to the fall of his pants. “Have you never danced in the summer rain?”

"No," Derek laughed.

“Then you're going to. You have to get naked.”

“Stiles, people will see.”

“Who?” Stiles, “there’s no one about and it's raining, no one's going to see.” He skinned out of his trousers, taking his boots, and stockings with them. So he stood in just his shirt with the thick summer rain running in rivulets down his face, his hair was slicked back by hands, “come on, get naked.”

“Is this a Slavic thing?” Derek asked, even as he did as he was asked, stripping down to his shirt, collar and cravat, because he hadn't undone them yet. Stiles reached out and undid the cravat, throwing it away to land near his own clothes, then undid the collar and tossed it away.

“It’s a me thing." Stiles said, “I used to do this with my mother, but only in storms like this.” He reached down and grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up over his head, revealing his nakedness in all it's glory, with the water landing on him in thick streams as the sky, black as it was, rumbled as if in appreciation.

He raised his hands over his head and swinging his hips, dancing to the music in his head, before he started to grab at Derek's shirt. Derek was not quite ready to divest himself of it because he was beginning to be aroused, how could he not be. Stiles was beautiful and wild and who would not be aroused at the spectacle of an omega dancing like a satyr in the rain. Derek had made himself a promise that he would not make Stiles feel obliged to act on Derek's’ desire, that he would let Stiles come to congress on his own and without pressure.

When Stiles was ready for congress then Derek would be waiting, but until then he was trying so hard not to push, which was hard, because Stiles was beautiful and had hands like a grown man, hands that could do things; and his mouth was soft and he seemed to genuinely enjoy kissing.

And in his dancing he had turned and Derek could see the curve of his back and the perfect swell of his ass, slick with rain, and his arousal was growing. If he took his shirt off and revealed it to Stiles would he be horrified? It was a dilemma.

And with Stiles already so insecure about the marriage bullying him, even accidentally, into congress was something Derek did not want to do. Stiles was, although he would deny it, fragile, and omegas were shy, but his shy omega was dancing naked in the summer rain as the lightning burned the sky in white flashes.

“Derek,” Stiles whined as he dancing, his hips moving in tandem to his feet, with his arms above his head, “dance with me.”

Stiles had mud between his toes and Derek was lost. He tugged his shirt up over his head, put his hands around Stiles' waist and started to move in time with him.

It was hypnotic and overwhelming and the air was sweet with petrichor and the damp roses and elderflowers in the trees above their head, and the smell of him, warm and rough against the sweet cloying fragrance of the early summer rain.

Derek's hand reached up to cup Stiles' face and bring it towards him, fingers curled around his neck and into a kiss.

Their previous kisses were almost innocent, the slow slip slide of their mouths with no intent other than kissing, but Stiles flicked his tongue out to lick up the rain running down Derek's face and Derek brought his own out to meet it, and the kiss was different, raw with hunger as Stiles pushed his own hips into Derek's, his fingers clinging to Derek's biceps, curled in like claws, as the hand that Derek had had on his waist curled down around the curve of his ass, to the crease where it met Stiles’ thigh.

Stiles leaned into the touch, pressing his chest against Derek's, his nipples hard points against Derek's own. Derek was, by nature, hirsute, with thick black hairs on his arms and legs, at his crotch and a spattering across his chest that would probably thicken when he grew older. In contrast Stiles was as hairless as a child, like most omega - some did grow a little hair, but they tended to remove it with hot wax, a trick developed by betas who wanted to emulate omega hairlessness, and Stiles seemed to like it, judging by how he moved one hand, the one on Derek's left bicep, into the hairs on his chest and dragging his nails through with a throaty groan into Derek's mouth.

Stiles was grinning when Derek pulled his mouth towards his jaw, his pointed ears and the skin behind where the hair curled, tugging with his teeth on the stud in his ears. He rocked his hips into Derek’s and let his own erection, much smaller than Derek's drag along Derek’s own, letting the rain lubricate them as they rocked together with grunts and groans and kisses against Stiles’ beautiful neck, sucking marks into the line of his collarbone as the rain battered them down.

Stiles was beautiful when he came, a heady flush that spread from his throat across his chest, like wine blushing through the water as the capillaries of his chest expanded and his head fell back in his delight as his fingers tightened, his fingernails dragging welts down Derek's chest.

Seeing Stiles take his pleasure Derek tumbled over himself, not knotting, but with jerks of his hips that almost hurt with how good it felt, his knees buckling until the two of them were sitting on the grass, in the rain, and Stiles started to laugh. His entire body delighted and involved in his laughter and Derek knew he would never want another person the way that he wanted Stiles. He wanted to roll him onto his stomach on the grass and push up inside him, to bring him to completion over and over to watch the beautiful flush spread across his collarbones. He wanted to see Stiles swell and ripen with children, he wanted to see him sit on the grass with fat sticky babies as he showed them how to make strings of daisies and blowing bubbles on rounded baby bellies. He wanted to see him grow old, but always laughing and delighted as he was now.

He should tell him, Derek thought to himself, about the circumstances of the marriage but how Derek did not regret it, even for a single instant, that Derek loved him entirely with his whole being like he never thought he could love, but Stiles wasn't there yet. He didn't need to know, Derek had intended to marry him regardless, it just would have taken longer, perhaps until the winter before he could see the delightful flush spread across his throat. He regretted nothing, but he wouldn't tell Stiles. Derek adored him anyway.


	21. in which the family grows

Derek was loathe to see Stiles dry himself off and change because he wanted to prolong the moment as he followed Stiles up the back stairs. Omegas were seen as pampered dolls, dressed elegantly and painted, wearing signature scents and their hair dressed with wax and powder. Seeing Stiles as he was now, soaked to the skin and grinning, covered in mud and grass stains on his clothes, his signature perfume washed away by the rain, and replaced by petrichor, crushed grass, and elderflower, and the lingering bitterness of seed was overwhelming. Derek wanted to chase him up the stairs and tumble him into their bed.

He wanted to spread him out and kiss all the places where the veins were close to the skin: the arch of his foot, the bend of his knee, the crease of inner thigh against groin, the fold of elbow, the burrow of armpit and the parchment thin skin of inner wrist. He wanted to suck each finger into his mouth, and each toe. He wanted nothing more than to curl in behind him, his skin pressed against Stiles’ own, not his hated nightrail that covered his entire body from cuff to collar to hem, that prevented the feel of skin against skin with thick linen, and burrow his nose into the skin behind his ear and take deep sucking breaths through his nose of his omega wax, although Stiles, like most modern omega, was fastidious about wiping away the build up.

When he was a child Derek had heard tales of harems and slavers who had kept omega and allowed the wax to build up, scraping it away from the skin with a specialised device called a _thwip_ , then bottling the resulting build up, selling it to brothels, high-born beta ladies, and perfume makers to add to their scents.

It had never really made sense to Derek because he had never really been swayed by an omega’s scent, and most wiped the area clean and replaced it with perfumed oils until they smelled of rose or lilac or some other flower and their own omega musk was gone.

However, the scent of Stiles was one that Derek wished to roll around in, to add to with his own, to cover with seed, to wrap him in gems and pearls and the bright green stone so popular in the orient. He wanted to see him wearing only jewels and sweat, arching under Derek's hands, but Derek kept these things to himself as he did not want Stiles to think him a deviant.

These were the things one wanted of a courtesan or mistress, not a bride. Omega were above such things, primped and pampered dolls that one showed in society, they did not have hungers of their own, or so Derek thought until he met Stiles, who was as bright and brilliant as the sun.

Now Stiles would wash, if not actively bathe, wiping the seed and sweat and rain from his skin like it had never happened.

Derek wanted, but he wanted to be wanted too, he wanted Stiles to come into his sexuality on his own without urging or bullying from Derek or society, and Stiles was beautiful and eager and it just made it harder. Since their marriage, Derek had taken himself in hand as often as he had as a young man just discovering his knot.

Laura was walking the upper walkways, Deucalion supporting her weight so that she could. After her accident, Laura had lost most of the use of her legs, and without her arm, she could not support herself with crutches, so when she did walk she was supported, usually by Ennis, but sometimes by Deucalion himself. The baby must have been unusually active for her to be walking about this late in the afternoon.

She raised her eyebrow as they went passed, grass stained and soaked. “Caught in the rain, brother?” she asked with a smirk.

“Summer rains can be quite sweet." Stiles answered, “I would highly recommend them, it has many virtues for your hair, for example, to wash it with rain water.”

“Yes," Laura said, “washing your hair, I am sure that is what you were about.”

“And pray tell, dear sister,” Stiles smiled, “what else could we be about? it is not like we are not like to be dancing like children in the rain.”

“If you were, it was not a waltz.” Duke said quietly, “but who are we to judge, it is not like we have not returned to the house looking like we were dragged through a hedge a time or two.” He had one arm under Laura’s armpit, and the other holding her useless hand, her good hand she had resting on her swollen belly.

"I thought you should know," Laura said, “but we have sent for the midwife.”

Stiles went oh, oh, and then a final oh as the implications of what she said sunk in. “We shall certainly make sure not to be in the way.”

“It will be hours yet," Laura said, “you will have time to finish the lace you promised me for a cradle cap.”

“Yes, yes, I shall make the lace.” Stiles sounded like he was the father just told the baby was about to be born and the incipient fear of fatherhood had left him dumb.

“Come along, love," Derek said ushering him towards the bedroom, “let’s get you cleaned up. I’m sure someone will fetch us if we're needed.”

—-

Laura spent most of the night walking about with Deucalion beside her, she sat down for supper, roast rabbit stuffed with oranges and garlic with pease and sweet red wine. She barely ate anything, although she was urged to, and did not touch the wine, contenting herself with mint tea to help settle her stomach.

Stiles tucked in like he had never seen food before, even stealing one of the thighs from Derek's plate when he had decided that Derek had had enough and needed to save room for dessert.

Stiles ate like he had never before seen food and Derek was just dumbstruck watching as he stuffed food into his mouth like it might, at any moment, vanish from the table. When the course was cleared away and the dessert placed on the table, thickened sweet cream with early summer berries and a lightly spiced bread to sop up the cream, he ate his own portion and then Laura’s when she declared she did not want it.

Derek watched him with a delighted wonder, as, now having consumed two large bowls of berries and cream, he cut himself a large slice of bread which he buttered and ate. “If the portions are too small," Deucalion said, “we can certainly tell the cooks.”

“We might have to," Stiles said, “I don't want to think of myself as a growing boy, I should be passed that, but I have never outgrown this appetite. When I was in London I couldn't eat the way I wanted to when I dined out with my father, it was all tiny portions and then raiding the embassy kitchen when I returned home.”

“You are the lord of this house," Derek said blithely, “tell the kitchens you want more on your plate, it won't be a problem, I doubt any of the cooks would care.”

“Mrs. Black," Duke said referring to the head cook, “is usually delighted with people who enjoy her food. It makes her feel valued.”

Stiles laughed, that whole body laugh that dominated Derek's fantasies of him, “oh believe me I know, she keeps a crock of food just for me when I get hungry in the afternoons and has said she makes more bread. She feels appreciated and sneaks me sweetmeats.”

“She’s never sneaked me anything." Duke pouted, “if I go into her kitchen she treats me like I am a French spy, very much unwelcome and determined to steal her secrets.”

“You corrected her that her nut meringue is called a _dacquoise_ , I think she thinks that you are French," Laura said, gritting her teeth through a contraction.

“I am the scourge of the French." Duke said with a quiet smirk, the sort that chilled the blood, “they run at the mention of my name.”

“Your specificity of the names of patisserie clearly terrifies them," Derek said into his wine.

“There shall be no mercy if you mistake a meringue for a _dacquoise_.” Stiles finished.

“And blood shall rain upon those who can't tell a creme patisserie for _coustarde_.” Laura completed.

“There should be no softness when it comes to patisserie," Duke said, “and thus I shall maintain vigilance and unleash devastation on those who get it wrong.”

“And that is why Mrs. Black will not make a _Religieuse a l’Ancienne_ , she fears your wrath should it collapse.” Laura was enjoying teasing her husband, it was distracting her from the contractions wracking her.

“She will not make one because the last time she did you took one of the base pieces and it not only collapsed but went everywhere, there was cream in Mother's hair." Derek said, “and the smell of rancid dairy lingered in the dining room for weeks, until the servants found the last of it.”

“It was in the picture frames." Laura laughed, then stopped and clutched the table taking deep breaths. “They're coming much faster.” She said, “please excuse me, gentlemen, I think it's time.”

Duke knocked the chair, heavy as it was, over backwards in his hurry to get up, and scooped Laura up as if she weighed nothing in his arms. The midwife, who had been in the house since early evening, had declined the offer to eat with them, instead taking supper with the servants, so the page, William who was called Liam, sent to fetch her from the kitchens.

After they were gone Stiles turned to Derek, Derek thought that he was about to discuss the events of the afternoon and braced himself as Stiles opened his mouth and said, “Do you think there is any cheese?”

—-

Late the next morning, after the arrival of Peter and Lydia to no fanfare, and Stiles cutting them both in the hall, Laura was delivered of an alpha son that they called Aurelian. Stiles found himself conscripted into helping the midwife and Katy bathe Laura who was a mess and kept crying at random moments simply because she was overwhelmed both physically and mentally at giving birth nearly a month before she was due.

Aurelian was a small sickling babe that seemed ill-disposed to latch on at first, as Laura cried, moving her dead arm to help support the baby with Katy running warm water through her thick black hair, and Stiles running around with cloth to help dry her, and bars of soap as the baby mewled weakly. When the time came to dress her the midwife placed the babe into Stiles' arms, all swaddled and wrapped in a lace knit blanket that had been made for her by a close friend.

Stiles walked backwards into the nursing chair and felt overwhelmed and very unworthy to hold this tiny red-faced person, and he was still holding him, running the tip of one finger over the tiny pointed ears and trying to decide if he wanted one, when Derek and Deucalion were allowed in to see Laura.

Derek took one look at Stiles holding the baby and excused himself, Stiles noticed and frowned at the baby in his arms, for the moments before Deucalion claimed his son with a look of wonder that made Stiles wonder how such a man could be considered the Demon Wolf, because around Laura he was soft and loving.

Stiles watched them with an ache before he excused himself, sure that he would not be missed.

—-

Lydia sat on the couch like a queen, wearing a travelling dress of brown velvet that made her hair look like fire in the light from the mullioned windows, and the flicker of the fire in the grate. She was clearly preparing herself for some sort of conflict, although Stiles was not in the mood to give her one.

He went to the tea tray that had been placed on the table and poured himself a cup, dropping in a sugar cube with a loud plink, before he sat down facing her. “Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked.

Lydia pursed her mouth. “Because it's all about you?" she asked.

“This is, I was your friend, I did my best to defend you from Jackson because I knew how much you despised being forced into marriage with him. I stood up to Jackson for you and diminished my own marriage prospects.” Lydia scoffed at that. “Of course, why would I diminish such, when they were already so low?”

Lydia opened her mouth to say something but then silenced herself, “I was not the diamond of the _ton_ , was I, even with my dower." Vasilisa came in, looked around the room, and seeing Stiles bounded over to him, wagging her tail before she jumped on his knee. With practice he lifted his teacup out of the way, allowing her to wedge herself between him and the arm of his chair, shifting his teacup to scratch between her ears lazily.

“You married well," she said, “you caught one of the most eligible bachelors, the mothers and aunts of London wept to hear how you had caught his attention.” There was a thick stripe of vitriol in what she said, like acid curling her lips and straining her voice.

“And you yourself caught the holy grail, a man that even his own family avowed would never marry," Stiles could be as caustic as she.

“I would hardly call him the holy grail," she said blithely, “perhaps unholy, but he is good to me and more than I hoped for in marriage.” She said, she did not sound fond when she spoke of her husband, but Stiles could be sure that he would not strike her, he would never prostitute her, and it might amuse Peter to cherish her.

“Then why was it you never told me, did you not think I would support it?”

“You knew Peter well, you would not support it.” Her tone was calm, she would sometimes wear her omega nature like armour, shielding herself in her beauty, being the cold flighty creature that society thought her to be.

“Ruining yourself, why would I support it?” He was a flurry of emotions and did not know what to feel so anger seemed to be the best option.

“I did not ruin myself," she said, “I married well.”

“Then why not announce it, that Peter might convince his wife into an elopement would be no surprise to anyone, they would snicker behind their hands but they would not be all over the the London gossip pages, do you know how many letters I received complimenting me on my pregnancy as a snide aside, how wonderful it is that I am spending it in the country for the city would not be favourable to me, and upset would be bad for the baby.”

"I never wanted you to be caught up in this.” That at least was honest. “I never wanted you to lie for me.”

“Why didn't you just elope?”

“I didn't want my mother to hate me.” She said, “I thought I could talk them around, but I couldn't. I tried, for months I tried, but they were more interested in Whittemore’s money than they were in me.”

“Lydia, they couldn't afford a dower for you, they were broke, the Whittemore’s stopped your father courting debtor's prison.”

“I bought out their debts," she spat out, “me, with the money Peter allowed me, but everyone assumed it was the Whittemores and why wouldn't they, they were rich and they wanted me because I was an omega, like I was some thing, a trinket to complete their collection.” She was red faced now, angry, “and there was Peter telling me to be patient if I needed to be patient, that we could announce our marriage anytime I was ready. He was good to me, he is good to me, he treats me like a person, Stiles, not the diamond of the _ton_ , or an omega doll. You married in haste, I assumed you'd understand that.”

Stiles did not.

"I made a choice, Stiles, I took weeks deliberating over it and I will not regret it. I do not regret it. He is good to me, and kinder than my parents ever were.” There was a look of resolution on her face, that suggested even if Peter were unkind, even if he were cruel, that she had made her decision and she would not change it for the world.

Stiles understood that omega got so few choices in life, that Lydia would snatch the most important one was not out of character for her. He himself had not been allowed to choose who he would marry, it had been arranged by his father and Derek, a negotiation he had no part of, as he was sold like cattle. Derek was kind to him, and was yet to knot him, but he had spent the vast majority of their marriage chasing Lydia and he was angry about that. It made him feel like a trinket.

“Is he good to you?” Stiles did not know if his question was one of jealousy, but he asked it anyway.

“Yes, and omega float is everything it's said to be,” she smirked to herself, "I enjoy bed play and Peter is a notorious cocksman, he gets an amount of pride from making sure I take my pleasure, and he is as interested in fashion and disinterested in gossip as I. He is smart, and he enjoys manipulation, but he is tolerant of my interest in the natural philosophies.” She stopped them, and ran her hands over the fabric of her skirt in a soothing gesture, Stiles emptied his teacup and poured himself another, emptying the cup.

“If his machinations allow me my interests, not forcing me into such things as embroidery and watercolours, for the lord knows I am poor at them, I will be happy.”

“Does he make you happy?” Stiles asked.

“Does your husband?” Lydia retorted.

“I am yet to be married a fortnight, and over a sennight of that my husband spent chasing after you. I cannot know if he makes me happy when I can count the hours we have spent together.” Stiles could not keep the bile from what he said. “But he is attentive and adoring, I imagine we will be happy. I shall not choose otherwise.”

“At least now we can talk about bed play like grown omega, and not shuttled off to the nursery with the other children.” Lydia offered him a smile.

“I remain a virgin," Stiles said honestly, “he wants me to come to desire on my own.” Lydia looked scandalised.

"I am half convinced Peter pressed marriage to get under my skirts." Lydia leaned forward, “I am unsure that the ink was dry on the register by the time that we were naked, and I was adrift in an omega float.” Omega float was a state where when knotted the omega entered a calm state as the glands were pressed by the knot, it was to prevent them pulling at the knot and causing damage to either them or others. It was said to be a sort of bliss where the omega lost all thought and compared it to floating upon a warm sea, with no pull on their flesh at all, or even the pressure of the knot.

“If he is such a cocksman, then your determination to be married might have swayed him.”

“We talk,” Lydia said, “he listens to me, he can be cruel, but never to me, I could love him," she said honestly, “even if it has little to do with marriage, I was happy until your husband came to take us back to reality, I am not sure I wanted to ever return to London.”

“Can you be ruined when you marry?” Stiles asked. “Because you certainly tried.”

Lydia laughed. “Perhaps if you marry the premiere rake of the realm."

“Society ascribed your scandal to me. The letters I received were so passively aggressively awful," Stiles said, “I got marriage advice from Kate Argent.”

“That will be handy if you want to murder your husband. She should write a book, one hundred ways to remove an unwanted spouse.” Lydia flipped her hair, it was a habit she maintained when she wanted to create the image of the perfect vacuous omega.

“You don't do her justice, it's clearly one hundred and one.”


	22. in which Derek gets an education about the nature of omega

Peter had always preferred the quiet of the rear parlour, a small room that overlooked the road as opposed to the main, medieval parlour, it had been one of the later additions and didn't catch the sun as the large topiary shapes that had been put in place by Derek's grandmother blotted out most of it, giving the room a cool dank feel if there wasn't a fire lit in the grate, and even at midday it wasn't unusual to have a lamp lit there, and everyone talked about cutting down the giant hedge shaped like a peacock but no one ever did.

It was that quiet and solitude that Peter had always preferred as he had admitted that he felt like he was acting out a performance if surrounded by too many people. Peter did not like people, on the whole, finding them simple minded fools, and took one of his true joys from manipulating them.

So when Derek decided to hunt out his uncle he knew that it would be there.

Peter was sat in one of the chairs he had taken from the main parlor beside the fire with his feet curled up beside him, reading the newspaper.

Peter had been so many years younger than his sister, Derek's alpha parent, Talia, and so many years older than Laura, Talia's oldest child, that he felt in a sort of limbo between the two, a stranger in his home. Derek had once wondered if that was the reason for Peter’s isolation and joy in minor cruelties.

“Nephew," Peter said looking up from the paper, as he folded it and put it on his lap. “I was under the impression that I sent for coffee, and not company.” Peter had spent his grand tour in Eastern Europe and had developed their taste for strong black coffee, although mostly the British only took it in the morning if they did not have chocolate instead.

“I thought you would like to know, Laura was delivered of an alpha son.”

“So Deucalion shall be insufferable for at least a month.” Peter finished. Peter and Deucalion often maintained an uneasy peace, they simply did not get along well. “If my Lydia has an omega daughter I shall never hear the end of it in comparison.” Derek chose to ignore the territorial pissing the two men went through every time they were in the same house. They tolerated each other because they both loved Laura and she loved them both.

“Then perhaps you shouldn't have been so quick to remove yourself from London society.”

“I could, certainly, have remained in Edinburgh," Peter answered calmly. “Society did not care that I stole an omega there.”

“You know why you could not,” Derek told him.

“Your boy." Peter answered, “heavens forbid I do not allow you to look the white knight in front of him.” He sounded arch, “and you have returned us to the bosom of family when the gossip is at it's worst.”

“What were you thinking?” Derek asked, “were you thinking? And then you went to rub salt in the wound by attending her engagement party to someone she could never marry because she was married to you.”

“That was particularly delicious." Peter admitted, “mostly because Whittemore is such an entitled ass.” Peter had a smile that was almost a smirk, and he uncurled himself from his position of comfort, crossing his in front of him like armor.

Derek had to concede the point about Whittemore. “He showed up thinking that Stiles was hiding her here.”

“You’d think that he would take a hint, but he is far too entitled.”

“He showed up here, ready for violence, and if not for Ennis he might have shown violence to Stiles.”

Peter rolled his eyes as he sighed. “I doubt he would have gone that far, he hasn't entirely lost his wits.”

“Ennis did not seem to think so.”

“If he tried violence in front of Ennis he deserved everything he got,” Peter said with some finality, the sort which suggested that Whittemore was now in a shallow grave near the Estuary for daring to raise a hand in the household that Ennis looked after in service to Deucalion.

“Stiles blacked his eye.”

Peter coughed out a laugh, it catching him so much by surprise that he brought his hand up to cover his mouth. “That I would pay to see several times over. The look on his face must have been worthy of a pound itself.”

“Then he insulted Laura in regards to her condition following her accident, asked Deucalion why he remained married to a “cripple”," Peter visibly winced, “and wondered how they had congress.”

“And he's _not_ in a shallow grave in the estuary?”

“After Laura embarrassed him greatly they lured the peacock and several of the geese into the room they were allowing him to stay in on sufferance and watched him run from the windows.”

“I assume that you were absent if he approached your boy unguarded.”

“Yes," Derek said, "I was chasing after you in the hope I might salvage Miss Lydia’s reputation.”

“That does not answer the question of why you are now haranguing me instead of knotting your boy.”

Derek's body language closed off, he became stiff and angry. “We rushed into marriage and I would not have him resent it or me, I want him to come into his desire honestly.”

Peter coughed out another laugh. “He’s an omega, Derek," he said, “he doesn't know about his own desire. They are raised to be trinkets, sought after and fought for, educated and displayed, another omega in the family will take them aside just before their marriage and explain the basics of sexuality to them, and the rest they learn, or not, by their alpha’s hand. Why do you think known rakes rarely go for debutantes? They have rarely even felt the touch of their own hand. They are almost professional virgins.” Derek thought for a moment of Stiles in the garden in the rain the previous day, at how wild and free he was, but how he wasn't wanton. Had he been the one to grind their hips together, or had it been Derek?

“So I should simply tumble him into bed and knot myself up inside him without care if he wants or enjoys it?”

“Don't be crass," Peter said calmly, nodding as one of the serving girls brought in a tray of coffee for him, putting it on one of the trays and checking the oil in the lamp before she left with a polite curtsey, pulling the door closed behind her. “If you think so then I have, as an alpha, failed in your education. You ease someone into bed sport, you do so slowly, letting them take their pleasure, you guide them from kisses to touches, to showing them how good it will feel so that when you knot them that they enjoy their float and don't resent it.”

“Is that what you did with your Lydia? Ease her into kisses.”

“Lydia had little patience for those being patient with her, and unlike your boy her omega parent had explained at length about bed sport, she went to my bed gladly and eagerly.”

“Did you marry her just to tumble her into your bed?” Derek asked.

“Nephew, you wrong us both with such an accusation. She is too beautiful for such fickle concerns, when she speaks I am in awe of her wisdom and how brilliant she is, and” he paused for a moment, “she has magnificent tits.”

Derek offered him an entirely fake smile, one that was mocking. "I hadn't noticed.”

“Of course not," Peter agreed, pouring himself some of the coffee from the silver pot. “You only had eyes for your boy even before you spoke to him. I remember you at the window of the carriage with your tongue hanging out like a dog’s at the sight of him, and determined not to let me know you were staring at him like he might be everything you ever wanted. Why would something like a magnificent pair of tits distract you from that? They were never your preference, after all.”

“And those tits were not the reason you pursued her?”

“They were the reason I noticed her." Peter admitted, “but when she talks I wish to listen, I am not without wit, and I have suffered from how few can manage my wit, even Cora, much as I adore her, struggles to keep up, although you and Laura are comfortable but barely tolerate me. She is the first in society in a long time that not only matches me but leaves me behind, and she is beautiful, but I would have married her if she were as plain as a church wife.”

"I am sure she would be delighted to hear such," Derek drawled, “for most omega are eager to hear praise of their beauty.”

“Are they, Derek? Or is it simply what we tell alphas because we have no interest in the minds of omegas, we educate them that we might claim superiority over other alphas in the prize we have caught, but in and of themselves how many bother to listen when omegas talk, how often do we care what it is that they find interest in? Lydia likes to be reminded she's beautiful, but her mind is a wonder and she takes no shame in being told so. Even if I thought her to be as plain as a church wife, although she certainly is not, she would honor me for respecting her mind.”

“Is she so wise?” Derek asked, his uncle was talking so completely out of character Derek was sure he was lying.

“She writes for the national philosophical society on the subject of mathematics." Peter answered calmly, “under a pseudonym, it is how I wooed her in fact, by acting as an intermediary, it was through my solicitor that her articles were sent, that was this August last, so nearly a year since.” Peter drained his coffee can and poured himself another in a practiced motion, and Peter noticed Derek watching him, “shall I send for a second cup?”

“Why did you keep the marriage secret? Surely her parents would be delighted that she had caught a lord of comfortable means.”

“Her parents despised me long before I met their daughters.” Peter answered, “in fact long before I had met them, her father is execrable at business and there was a time when my Lydia was still on leading strings that I took delight in stymieing him and taking his money. A fool and his money are easily parted and he was easier than most. For some reason Martin took it personally although certainly, it was not, I would have, and have, treated many such idiots the same way. So he would, of course, see that I had married Lydia not because she is magnificent but because I was taking her from him.”

“You have a high opinion of yourself, uncle," Derek told him.

“And rightfully deserved,” Peter said without a hint of ego. “Lydia wished to remain on fair terms with her sisters, so when we agreed to marry, and her sister was amenable to it, when serving as her chaperone we married after several months of courting. It was not a quick decision, nephew, and not one I regret. My only regret is that I was eager to please her and so agreed to the secret when we could have lived as man and wife for five months.”

“The Martins pursued the Whittemores to find a suitor for their only omega daughter.” Derek mentioned, “they became indebted to them and as good as sold her, and yet you never spoke up.”

Peter let out a lusty sigh. “She befuddles me." He admitted, “she can wrap me around her finger like I was a ribbon, she suggested it and I agreed, and when I argued she talked me around.”

“Uncle, have you finally met your match? And worse yet, married her?” Derek wanted to crow with delight. It was something that he had never thought to see, Peter had openly said he would never marry for no omega or beta was capable of keeping up with him, and he had chosen someone who was able to manipulate him the way he manipulated others. It was delicious.

“And I didn't have to be caught coming out of her bedroom at night to manage it,” Peter answered. “You have told him such, have you not?”

“His father asked that I do not,” Derek folded in on himself, he was a large man but when he did that he looked like a child being scolded. “Stiles is wondrous but he does not see to see that wonder no matter how, or who it is that tells him. He is wracked by self-doubt and if he learned that I did not rush into marriage simply by being overwhelmed by him, although I am certainly that, that it will devastate him, and I wish to save him that.”

“Then you understand why I agreed to Lydia’s desire for secrecy in our marriage," Peter said quietly. “She asks and I am as stupid as a sheep in the field, I am overwhelmed with the terror that she might be upset and I would pull down the stars from the sky to prevent it.”

“Do you love her?” Derek asked.

“Don't be silly, nephew," Peter said, “like I would ever be so gauche. I am merely transfixed by her and would sooner die than make her unhappy. But love, love is for other people, and I have no interest in it.” Derek just smiled at him, for once knowing something that his uncle did not. “Are you so unfashionable, nephew, that you love your boy?”

“I have never been a dedicated follower of fashion," Derek answered calmly, “if not for Boyd I imagine I might show up in jerkin and hose.”

Peter laughed again. “But do you have the calves for it?”


	23. in which Derek suggests a ball to counter the gossip

Stiles pulled away from Derek, with his hands on Derek's shoulders and his lips kiss swollen. “Hello," he said with a grin, but Derek dipped in for another kiss. “Are you always going to greet me like this?” Stiles asked against his mouth.

“Certainly," Derek said and trailed kisses along his jaw before sucking Stiles’ earlobe into his mouth, his arms draped around Stiles' waist, tugging him into the warmth of Derek's embrace, “I shall give you a thousand kisses for each day I've known you.”

“Then your lips shall certainly be worn away with use," Stiles said with a laugh. “A thousand kisses you say, what have I done to be so spoiled?”

“Simply been you," Derek assured him with a kiss to the place behind his ear where his scent was thickest, although dabbed with lilac oil, which just enriched his scent.

“We both know that isn't true," Stiles said, wriggling free of Derek's arms, “is there something you want of me, husband?”

Derek was angered by the sudden rejection, he did not understand why it was that Stiles could not believe the veracity of his passion. Stiles enchanted and befuddled Derek, but he could not seem to accept that he would be so with Stiles himself, and so Derek pulled away, taking a step back and then moving to the table where a bottle of red wine was decanted. He poured himself a glass and took a deep draught, more to stop himself making himself a fool than out of any thirst.

“Is it so unthinkable that I might simply want to spend time with you, that I might want to adore you?” He said calmly, “I shall leave you alone if you do not wish to be adored.”

“Derek," Stiles said, the name still uncomfortable on his tongue, "I don't understand you. Harey, the Polish ambassador, she said I would marry someone I would not understand, and husband, your ways are very strange to me.”

"I thought I was transparent in my attentions," Derek told him.

Stiles sat down on the couch, and accepted a glass of wine from his husband, “I am sorry, husband, I am out of sorts, the gossip in London continues unabated and I think by remaining here I simply fan the flames. I know that I should not care what they think of me, but I do.”

“What is it that you wish to do?” Derek asked, “I am your servant in this.”

“I was hoping that you'd have an idea, I am considering asking Peter, but since our marriage all he does is leer at me like he knows some terrible secret that I do not.” Stiles answered quietly, with his eyes demurely downcast.

“My uncle believes that everyone has a terrible secret, and if he does not know what it is then he acts like he does so that everyone wonders what it is that he knows.” It was not a disservice to Peter’s character to say so.

“I despise the way that they talk of me, people who never knew I existed now talk about me like I am some character in a play, with no feelings of my own, and what of my father? He is caught in this gossip for allowing me to be suborned allegedly, and so he is a laughing stock, and I want to prove them wrong, I want to make them realize that they are cruel and wrong.”

Derek considered what Stiles said for a moment, and then he smiled, “Let us throw a ball.” He said finally, “we shall hold our heads up high and celebrate our marriage, we shall show all of those who remain in London,” he considered what he was saying, “no, we shall go to Brighton, if the nobility has gathered there for the summer, that is where we shall hold the ball, and we shall show them that we are not ashamed of our marriage and that it is all lies spread by those with nothing better to do, and if we find out who has started this malicious lie then I shall take them to court over it.” He felt triumphant as he had not in some time, “I shall send to have the Brighton house opened, and one of the Assembly Rooms booked for a ball. You shall, of course, need to visit a modiste, Laura is certainly more skilled at the planning of these than I." He stopped himself, “is this what you want, Stiles? Would you like to hold a ball to celebrate our marriage?”

Stiles considered it for some time before he took a sip of his wine. “Yes," he said and there was defiance in his tone. “Fuck them and their desire to see us languish outside society, I’m a fucking Marquis," he said, “and that means I’m going to fuck them.”

"I'd rather you didn't," Derek said in a sage, patient manner, “at least not until you fuck me.”

Stiles looked astonished and delighted at what Derek said before he burst out laughing, a blush staining his cheeks to match his jacket. Derek had a momentary desire to strip him to the waist to see how far down the blush went.

Stiles had a smattering of moles like the spatters of a divine paint brush, that was rough against Derek's fingertips when he found them in his explorations. They drove Derek to distraction, and when he blushed them seemed more pronounced. He wished that Stiles could see how beautiful Derek found him; how when the light them just right his eyes looked like warm cognac; and the plum color of his lips; and how when he laughed Derek's world stopped as he waited for him to throw himself from the chair in his laughter.

Derek grinned at Stiles. “When you look at me like that,” Stiles said, "I often feel like you're going to gobble me up like the wolf in a folk tale.”

Derek's grin seemed to grow, if such was possible, “do you want me to?” he asked.

“You are a _bzou_ ,” Stiles said, “now go, take your daily ride if your horse will carry you, and you do not just shirk your jacket and run on all fours like the wolf you are.”

Derek kissed Stiles on the mouth softly before he went to leave, “one day I shall learn what a bzou is, and if I should be insulted.”

“Yes," Stiles agreed, tilting his face up to the kiss, “but not today.”

—-

Derek made a point every day to take a daily ride, as much for his horse as himself, and when he returned the horse to the stable he made sure to brush it down with straw, and cover it with a blanket. He had, as an adult, had allowed himself few extravagances. He kept himself neatly, but his clothes were not made by the most expensive tailors but those who were well skilled and companies which had served his family for generations. Let Peter play the dandy in his stead. His one exception was his horse, Saturn, an Arabian from an Irish breeder that had cost him more than he paid Boyd in a year. He did try to feel bad about it, but Saturn understood him in a way very few other things did and had what he considered to be a worthy trait in members of his household, with the exception of Stiles, he didn't talk a lot.

Saturn barely deigned to notice him, even when the other horses, spoiled by slices of dried apple, nickered and were eager to see him, there were mint sweetmeats, sugar cubes and other treats for the horses in his pockets, but Saturn, who was a sleek black, clearly considered himself above such things.

Derek rubbed down Saturn's neck then delivered a few comfortable pats before he dressed him for a ride. Saturn had, since Derek’s return to Essex become his favorite confidante, and the poor beast heard all of his woes. He had not used Saturn for the ride to Edinburgh because he was too fine a beast for such a grueling journey, at least at the speed at which Derek had undertaken it.

He would ride for perhaps an hour, certainly no further than the shore, then sit for a while allowing Saturn a rest during which he told the horse everything about his life, mostly because the horse neither judged nor cared before he returned with his appetite sharpened by the exercise. Boyd would then shuttle him into a thorough wash with complaints that he stunk of the stable, and fresh clothes and when he went back downstairs he was given something to drink and some tea.

When he came back in Laura was sat with the baby on her knee. He was unsure how to act with his nephew, who, it seemed, was just as unsure of him, because when Aurelian became aware of his uncle he opened one eye, yawned and then closed that eye again. Derek understood that. Both Stiles and Lydia were also in the parlor, taking tea with Laura, and both at some labor. Lydia was embroidering, which mostly involved stabbing her thumb with her needle and cursing, and Stiles with his tatting, making lace between finger and thumb in quick, studied motions that Derek could not fathom but could watch for eternity. The three of them had clearly been talking, and there was not a fourth cup set out.

“Duke and Peter are in the dining room," Stiles said, accepting the kiss on his cheek, “you might be more comfortable there.”

"I know where I am unwanted," Derek said, taking a mouthful of Stiles’ tea with a comfortable ease, and one of the cakes.

“Unless you want to participate in planning a ball in Brighton." Lydia said, “and then you are most welcome to stay.”

“The dining room sounds ideal to me.”

—-

Derek asked, over supper, if he might go to Stiles that night and Stiles agreed, even as he talked with his mouth full about the sort of decorations would be more suitable for Brighton than London and whether a tray of citrus fruit was too expensive for the off-season. Derek himself had spent the evening with Duke and Peter who were close to blows over every little thing with outdated Alpha posturing that would be expected more between two dogs, Alyosha draped across Derek's knee and about as amused at the two of them sniping at each other.

He explained this to Stiles as Stiles readied himself for bed, once Derek had his boots and cravat off he was easily undressed and tumbled into bed, face down in his pillow and breakfast in the morning, but Stiles brushed out his hair, and washed his face, then wiped it down with a cloth with a few drops of a soft oil designed to prevent his skin from drying out in the night, then a cream thick with the scent of violets, and a mix of rose oil and beeswax on his lips before he undid his banyan and climbed into bed in a night rail that would not look out of place on a virgin saint, with socks peeking out from the hems.

When Derek had taken lovers before they had been careful never to show him their evening rituals, the things they did to preserve their beauty although he was very sure that they had done them, with Stiles there was no artifice, he needed to do these things before going to bed so he did. He did not change his routine just because he had married.

Derek was learning to take the minutes where the cream was being absorbed into his skin for talk because they didn't taste nice.

In truth for as nice as they smelled they tasted foul.

So Derek listened as Stiles talked, both lying on their sides looking at each other, as Stiles waved his hands back and forth discussing the plans that Lydia and Laura had for the ball that Derek had agreed to. Derek half listened and half considered what Peter had told him, that omega were unaware of their own sexuality. He wondered if in wanting Stiles to want him he was asking something of Stiles he wasn't ready to provide, that he simply did not understand what it was that Derek was asking of him.

He wondered if he should slowly seduce him, taking it over time, introducing him, one by one, to the pleasures of the flesh, but the idea made him feel a little sordid, but he had the overwhelming urge to see Stiles take his pleasure. Stiles was lovely by lamplight and to see that flush overtake his throat and chest in the lamplight made Derek's mouth go dry with want. He found himself suffering through the terrible dilemma of desire and wanting to protect him from all the wickedness of his desire.

Stiles yawned like he laughed, with his entire being, his lashes falling heavy on his cheeks, and it caused Derek to yawn too.

A little desire, Derek decided, would not condemn him.

However taking the vile nightrail out into the gardens and burning it might, for Stiles seemed attached to the accursed thing.

Once he was sure that the cream and wax had been mostly absorbed into Stiles’ skin he asked, “might I kiss you?”, but Stiles was already asleep.

—-

Following a heavy breakfast, Stiles loved food and the cook loved Stiles loving food and was more than happy to continue heaping up his plate, and sending him off with a basket before they left for Brighton.

Knowing he would spend hours in the carriage Stiles had dressed for comfort in a pair of wide-legged pants, wide enough that unless he was walking about looked like a skirt, that he admitted that he had inherited from his mother, and a shapeless fisherman's sweater he had purchased from one of the villagers near the abbey and had clearly seen better years and storms terrible enough that the sweater could be considered a casualty, but it slipped down to reveal his collarbones and when he moved his shoulder and the long line of his neck.

It was an ugly thing indeed but it certainly had its virtues, and comfort was only one of them. The carriage was rocking along on the road, and the lovely curve of Stiles' throat was driving Derek to distraction. Stiles grinned at him before he moved across and straddled Derek, putting his head between his hands and kissing him.

Derek was not one to miss an opportunity, so he slipped his hands up under the ugly sweater to the warm soft skin underneath it, “I finally get you alone," Stiles said against his mouth, his fingers curving into Derek’s hair. “No one to interrupt, the pups in the other carriage, and only us.” He rocked his hips up into Derek's own, rolling them against Derek's like he had in the garden in the rain that day.

Derek's mind went blank like he was in a dream as the carriage rocked underneath them and Stiles rolled his hips up into Derek's with breathy gasps as Derek kissed his neck. He remembered what Peter had said about the way Omega were raised as sexless dolls and with a jerk pulled the ugly sweater out of the way, leaving Stiles shirtless.

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at it but said nothing, he simply pushed his throat towards Derek's mouth, allowing him to drag his mouth along the skin there, with his hands hot and strong into the skin of his waist.

Stiles made a querulous noise when Derek first sucked one nipple into his mouth, as if wondering why but then quickly decided that it was for the best and let out a throaty moan when Derek flicked it with his tongue, before taking a hearty suck at it.

Like a switch had been flipped Stiles went boneless in his embrace, his hips were pushed as far forward as he could as if he simply had no idea that his body was capable of what it was doing and now his brain was struggling to compensate. Derek grinned at him before biting down gently on the skin around the areola, listening to the grunts and groans of an omega taking his pleasure.

Derek moved one hand to the fall of Stiles’ bizarre pants, “can I?” he asked.

“Yes,” Stiles hissed, “please.”

With a flick of his wrist Derek’s hand was inside the fabric, curling around the erection he found there, and giving it soft, easy jerks, until with a yip, one he would later deny he made, Stiles came. Derek took the opportunity to move his fingers lower, through the slick he found there and slipped them up inside Stiles to ease him through the throbbing. Instead of wrecked, as one might imagine Stiles to look, he was triumphant, grinning like a wild man until he caught his breath and the delightful flush had faded from his throat and collar.

“There is something I heard of at the embassy that I always wanted to try," He climbed off Derek, his legs as wobbly as those of a newborn foal, and fell to his knees, his hands scrabbling at the fall of Derek's pants, and once he had liberated Derek's erection - Derek himself was so hard it hurt - and before Derek could gather up enough wit to ask what it was that Stiles was about Stiles opened up his mouth and swallowed him down.


	24. in which Derek takes Stiles shopping in Brighton

Brighton was a gay town. After the prince regent had decided to build his pavilion it had become the place for the nobility and well to do to summer, and as such the entire infrastructure was built around that end. With their sudden decision to go to Brighton and host a ball the Brighton house that the Hales kept, but hardly ever used, was closed, so instead of going straight to it they went to a hotel until the house was ready for them, which should certainly take no longer than a week. Stiles questioned the necessity of the Brighton House when they had houses all over Britain, mostly available for others to rent, and the Abbey, which was their primary country house, was beside the sea anyway.

Derek made sure to have the carriage drive past the house, which was on the outskirts of town but had a lawn that went down to the beach, and from there with a bathing machine that was on the sand, with a canvas hood that was tied back, and Stiles made a squeal of delight and said “I love sea bathing.” Derek had a momentary flash of Stiles, naked, swimming in the ocean, Stiles noticing the flash grinned at him. “I had thought you would be satisfied, is it that you are never going to be satisfied, husband.”

“If you satisfy me anymore, Stiles," Derek said, “we will have to have the entire carriage reupholstered, already I can hear Boyd making plans involving vinegar and baking soda.” Stiles bark of laughter was reason enough, Derek decided, to keep the house in Brighton.

 

 

The Hotel was well appointed and the rooms that they took had a sea view and seeing the bed Stiles threw himself upon it and rolled from side to side. Derek raised an eyebrow looking at him, “I wanted to make sure it was comfortable.” Stiles told him without a moment of regret in his tone. “Want to join me?”

“You are a devil." Derek told him, “you are determined to tempt me into damnation.”

“I have to go to Hell when I die, Derek, I’m an omega, we feel the cold most keenly, without lakes of fire I shall never be warm,” Stiles said as if it were the most obvious thing ever. Derek did not laugh the way that Stiles did, with his whole body, with loud barks of laughter, but instead a much less polite snort from his nose escaped. “You married me, you’ll have to come too.”

"Would that mean you wouldn't put your freezing cold feet on my calves?”

“Hey," Stiles sounded scandalized, “that’s an omega perk of marriage.”

“And what's the alpha perk?” Derek asked, sitting on the chair facing the bed. There was a small fire set out and the shutters on the windows, and the drapes, pulled back to reveal the fine summer’s day, but the two of them were hovering around the bed like they both didn't already need baths from the journey. Boyd had made the comment they needed Jesus, which had just made Stiles laugh.

Stiles seemed under the impression, mistaken as it was, that Boyd liked him, and Boyd had come to the conclusion that Stiles was in all of creation for the sole purpose of creating more work for him. Derek was sure both were right.

"I thought I was the perk," Stiles said, “I’m positively delightful,”

“You are," Derek said, enjoying this side of Stiles, often Stiles was much more self-deprecating and even self-loathing. He did not believe himself worthy of much of what was his own when really he deserved the world. “You are a wonder like the world has never known.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic." Stiles said, “hyperbole is not always welcome, husband.”

“You are a benison of wonder," Derek said calmly, standing up and stalking towards the bed, “the epitome of delight, you are most definitely an alpha perk,” He pushed himself into Stiles’ space and closed the distance with a kiss, ending it with a nip to his lower lip. “No hyperbole.” He said, “and I shall devour you with kisses until you agree with me.”

“Help," Stiles laughed, “I am being devoured, whatever shall I do?” He was matching Derek's gaze, holding it before Derek grinned, wolfish, and started peppering kisses on his face and neck, as he pushed Stiles back into the mattress and comforter.

“We should do things," Stiles said between kisses, “a promenade along the water perhaps, to build an appetite.” He ducked in to kiss Derek's face. “I haven't been to Brighton in such a long time, I would like to see it before all the folderol of the Ball and things.”

“How could I deny you anything?” Derek asked, “right now if you asked for the moon I would make you a net and wait in the woods for the shadow to fall upon a still pond.”

Stiles laughed, "I’m the one who makes lace," he said, “you’ll have to ask me to make it, and I’ll be “why" and you’ll answer “so I can cast it out to catch the moon" and I’ll be, you do know I can't do anything with the moon, I mean it's too big to display, I'd much rather have jewellery.”

“Then jewelry you shall have," Derek said, kissing the tip of his nose, “perhaps some moonstone.”

“And you think I’m the one who will drag us both to hell and debauchery,” Stiles said, pushing Derek back, “we should look at least respectable," he said, “but if you're lucky I might let you grope me in public.”

“Wicked, I have married an imp. Whatever shall I do?” Derek teased him.

“Live in connubial bliss obviously,” Stiles answered blithely. “Now we shall walk along the sea front, I’m told the sea air does wondrous things for the appetite, but I was unmarried and couldn't comment.” Derek didn't correct him about what it meant to have the sea air stimulate the appetite, the way Stiles ate it was unlikely to make much of a difference.

 

—-

 

The jeweler and the modiste came to them in the hotel, to Stiles astonishment. They had helpers carrying heavy wooden boxes and bales of fabric. “You’re a marquise now," Derek said, “the world will do it's best to accommodate your whims.” But Stiles was agog as they bowed and scraped.

When Stiles couldn't decide over a set of bracelets, Derek said, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair, “we’ll take it all," he gestured to the box, “you can leave it here and settle it with my accounts.”

"My lord?” the jeweler said at the same time Stiles went “Really?”

“Yes,” Derek said, “although not that piece," he pointed out a particularly plain amber cross, “I want something similar, but with gold braiding across the arms in an x shape, and a pair of amber ear fobs to match.” He looked into the box, “and of course something to store it all in.”

“Yes, my lord," the man said and pulled out a small notepad and pencil and started taking notes, “is there anything else my lord wishes?”

Derek turned to Stiles, “is there, beloved?”

Stiles' mouth fell open, and then he corrected himself, “yes, I would like a string of pearls long enough to loop around the neck and still drape down my front," he said, “and rings for my thumbs," he added, “gold, but with no stones,”

“Certainly, my lord," the man said. “If you have any other ideas feel free to contact me, I will be delighted, it will, unfortunately, take some time to make the signature pieces, but I can certainly try and resize the rings now for you.”

Derek was drinking brandy as he watched the whole affair, Stiles draping the jewels over himself and grinning with delight. Most of the pieces were little more than costume jewelry, with large flashy pieces, but there was a string of rubies forming a choker on a red velvet ribbon that was both expensive and tasteful. It was one of the few pieces in the box that were actual precious stones, and when Stiles saw it he lifted it with a gasp and held it up against his throat.

Derek had a flash of Stiles lying on the bed, naked but for the collar, in the flush of ecstasy, and was glad he had decided to buy the entire set. Otherwise, he might have paid more for the collar alone.

If Stiles noticed his moment of lust he said nothing of it.

When he spread out the fabrics Derek made the choices for him, choosing colors and textures that he thought would best suit him, letting Stiles choose notions and detailing that he preferred. He chose the colors that would bring out the richness of his skin and his eyes, and those he wanted to peel him from, to reveal the skin, flecked with moles, underneath.

With that done they went for a second short walk along the sea front arm in arm, before they returned to the hotel to dress for dinner.

Derek insisted that Stiles wear the choker with a red jacket. “I like jewelry," Stiles said sitting in front of the mirror and draping the stones around his neck.

Derek made a noise of confirmation as he struggled with his cravat. Although Boyd chose what Derek was to wear Derek liked to maintain at least the illusion of being able to function by himself by dressing himself. Then Boyd would often adjust his vest, his jacket, and his cravat so he looked sharp enough for polite society.

“Before my mother died I would sit on her knee and she would let me try on her jewels. I imagine my father will give them to me after our first anniversary.” Derek was still struggling with his cravat so made another noise of confirmation to show he was listening but he couldn’t get the fabric when the way he wanted it. “It gives him time to get them from the bank.”

“If you don't mind me asking," Derek said, “how did your mother die?”

There was a moment of silence, pregnant with possibilities as Derek waited for Stiles to answer him. “A brain fever," Stiles said finally. “It started when I was too young to understand why she would forget things sometimes, and she had megrims, terrible things that lasted days, with the servants running about and my nurse doing whatever she could to distract me so I didn’t go into her room. Then there were tempers, foul things she would fly into for no reason, throwing things and screaming obscenities then forget she'd done it. It started with months between attacks, then as I got older they got closer and closer together.

“Eventually, Tata just kept me away from her, but I heard the servants muttering, she thought I was trying to kill her, but it was the fever talking. Once given the chance it convinced her to hang herself.” Stiles said it so starkly as if he gave it any emotion it would overwhelm him, “I had just turned ten.”

Derek, cravat half undone, wrapped his arms about Stiles where he was sat on the small stool in front of the mirror, resting his chin on the crown of Stiles’ head, he said nothing, just held him as he waited for the paroxysms of grief to overwhelm him. "I’ve had eleven years to mourn her, love," Stiles said softly, “I don't like to talk about her, but I do not like the prospect of secrets between us. Imagine if someone had carried tales of her hanging herself to you without a word of the brain fever that plagued her. It is so easy for these things to get tangled without being placed in the correct context, now, how do I look? even if you have mussed my hair.”

If Stiles burrowed his way into Derek's arms that night, tucking his face against his throat and his head under his chin, their legs entwined like vines, Derek could not blame him.


	25. In which Stiles throws a ball

Within three days of their arrival in Brighton, before the house was complete in it's set up, Stiles began to receive cards announcing that people, most of which he had no idea who they were, would be calling on him. This caused a frenzy of worry over what to wear, how he should behave in front of some of the beta ladies of Brighton and what to serve. Derek had to grab him by both shoulders and fix him in place with his stare, “you are a Marquise," he repeated, “they are here to curry favour with you in the hope of being invited to your ball, you could show up in your scandalous night rail, your hair in a towel, draped in jewels and by tomorrow they would be copying you.”

“Derek," Stiles said, “if you wish me to dress like that when we’re alone you have only to ask.”

Derek grinned at him with too many teeth, “you are a wicked imp," he said, walking Stiles backward towards the wall.

"I am your imp," Stiles said as his back hit the wall, and he took a small jump so he could wrap his thighs around Derek's waist, Derek took his weight easily as Stiles wrapped his arms around his neck. “Are you going to send for the priest to return me to hell?”

“I have ideas for that night rail,” Derek said, biting Stiles ear lobe before sucking it into his mouth to soothe the hurt.

“Really?” Stiles asked, “is that the one with the lace and the leg o mutton sleeves?” he was being facetious because the one with the lace was the one Derek had plans for involving fire.

“The one with the ribbon, the one you wore in London.” Derek murmured.

"I do think you’d look lovely in it," Stiles said.

Derek burst out laughing. “I can see it now," and the problem was that he could, the tie forming a bow under his Adam's apple, showcasing his beard and chest hair, with the thick black hair on his thighs and shins making it's way through the fine muslin like it was a net.

“But think how easily I could part the fabric," Stiles whispered, pressing down against Derek with his hips, grinding against him, “I could kneel before you, part the fabric and take you in my mouth. I did enjoy doing that, and I know you enjoyed me enjoying it.”

Derek made a noise of assent as he used his nose to push back the hair from Stiles’ omega glands. Omega, as one of their weird quirks, formed wax in a space behind their ear, it was a sort of flaky dried discharge that most omega wiped away as part of their daily ablutions, but it was where their scent was most potent, and the old myths of alphas being undone by omega scents would show the licentious and wicked omega holding the alpha to that space behind their ear.

Derek understood that he loved that position, burying his face in that soft space, and breathing in his warmth and softness. He had moments where he imagined himself knotted up inside Stiles, buried in that heat and softness and with his face buried in that place with Stiles in omega float, that state omegas got when knotted where they floated upon their delight so that they did not pull away and hurt themselves.

He wasn't sure, himself, why it was that he had not knotted Stiles, when he wanted to, and Stiles wanted him to, but he was still slowly introducing him to the pleasures of the flesh, like an aesthete when just this morning he had buried his face in Stiles’ ass until Stiles was screaming into the pillow, begging for things he couldn't articulate, and now he was rolling his hips into Derek’s, whilst Derek nosed at his gland. Stiles had specifically said no marks in places that they could be seen, but he wanted, desperately, to suck a mark there; to tell everyone who saw him there that Stiles was his, not just because they were married but because Stiles chose to let him knot him.

But he hadn't knotted Stiles yet.

“Did you enjoy it?” Stiles asked in a husky voice, “would you put the night rail on if I asked you if I told you it was in my trunk.”

"I would do anything for you,” Derek said and it was true.

“Would you stay with me for the people calling?” Derek wondered if that was what Stiles had intended all along with his seduction.

“Of course, my love," Derek said although he had no more eagerness for it than Stiles did. “Anything, anything.” He whirled, pressing Stiles into the mattress of the bed with an oomph exhalation of breath.

\- - -

The Ball that the Marquess of Wessex threw in honour of his marriage was open to all, and anyone who was dressed to enter was given entrance causing the assembly rooms to be packed, people were given very little access to the stairways because of the amount of people crammed into them, and everyone wanted to see the young marquise. It was so excessive people started bringing barrels of wine as a gift for the marriage in the hope that it would be enough to gain them entry. The party spilled out into the street and the lawn behind the building, which had to be quickly set up with torches and lamps.

The complete crush meant that no one was quite sure who the marquise was, other than a young omega, so all of the young male omega were courted with thanks.

“Your grace," one large beta woman in a velvet dress with a turban that trailed on the floor behind her, and had been stepped on by several others, who pointedly apologized with the tone suggesting if she had not wanted it to be stepped on it would not drag on the floor behind her. She doffed a low curtsey that Stiles was not sure was appropriate. “Thank you for inviting me and my daughter to your little get-together.”

Stiles had brayed with laughter. “It has become something other than a little get-together.” He said, “but you are more than welcome, your daughter, Jessamine, she comes out next January does she not, I suppose this is a good opportunity for her to see some of the available bachelors before the pressure to find a marriage.”

“I doubt she will do so well as you, your grace.”

“I wonder,” Kate Argent said, coming up from the side, “if all could do so well without a little encouragement.”

The beta woman, Lady Grayson, turned with a delicate sneer, the sort that did not look to be as vitriolic as she meant it, and was perfectly designed for London society. “I assume you are talking about that terrible rumor that was in the gossip rags, for surely if we were to expect a Halloween babe, as they have been claiming, the boy would not be the image of the lithe omega we see before us.”

“I am aware of the rumor,” Stiles said, “of course I have no idea as to it’s cause, jealousy, perhaps, I am aware, of course, of how eligible my husband was, how rich, how handsome, how dear. His large estates and quiet temper, there are many who would take such horrible measures to catch such a bachelor, but it is not a hunt where we chased him through the woods like Artemis with Actaeon.”

“How adorable," Kate said, “that you think he would be the one compromised," her tone was sweet. “How much was it that you brought to the marriage, thirty thousand pounds, forty thousand?”

“Lady Vesey," Lady Grayson said, “you are a guest of the young Marquise, and perhaps you share a previous acquaintance, but you are being insufferably rude. His lordship is clearly delighted by the marriage. He has married well, and happily. The rumors are clearly false, he is not with child and the Marquess is happy with him. I had heard, of course, it is just a rumor, that you had set eyes upon the Marquess, perhaps as a lover, or a new husband following the death of your own husband.” Lady Grayson clearly had no intention of allowing Kate to continue with her snide tone. “And the marriage certainly skews your own ambitions there, does it not?”

“I had heard it was Peter Hale," another Lady said, Stiles didn’t catch her name, “that you had taken such an interest in, and he too married this season, so that becomes another potential lover who will not keep you. I have heard he is quite smitten with the girl.”

“He is," Stiles said, “it is quite obnoxious to watch the two of them together.”

And if there is one person in all of England that would compromise someone for the chance to marry, it would be Peter Hale.” Lady Grayson said.

"Like Peter would ever be caught in marriage," Kate said, “he has been deflowering the omegas of London for years. I had heard, but this is only gossip, that he stole the Martin Omega to thwart the Whittemores.”

“He stole the Martin omega if a person can be stolen," Stiles corrected, “before the season started, her desire to remain in the good graces of her parents was the reason the marriage was not announced immediately, but that is when they eloped. I have spoken to both and seen the certificate, I have seen them together, and in eloping with her he threw away any inheritance that she had.”

“But the Marquess did not throw away your inheritance, did he?” Kate sneered.

“I do not know what it is you are implying, Lady Vesey?” Stiles answered, “for the marquess has been nothing but kind to me.”

“Perhaps, Lady Vesey," Lady Grayson said firmly, “you would be better served to return to your lodgings in London, for it is clear that you are overstaying what welcome you had at this gathering , and Brighton remembers.”

In that moment Stiles adored Lady Grayson and made the mental note that she had an open invitation to anything Stiles did in the future.

“Far be it from me to carry such bad tales,” Kate said with a smile, spreading her hands out over her skirt to show the fabric off to best advantage. She was a beautiful woman but there was a hardness to her that Stiles had always found unattractive. Allison was unfortunate indeed that she was judged by her aunt and not by her own merits. It was unlikely Allison was even at this party. “But I know for a fact that you were compromised, dear boy, because I’m the one who caught him leaving your room that night.”


	26. In which Stiles is angry

Stiles was silent for the carriage ride back to the hotel, which Derek took to be tiredness. He, himself, was exhausted dealing with all the people and the crush. The place had been packed and even escaping into the Assembly Room's gardens had not lessened the amount of people milling around. He guessed that if he was tired from dealing all of the people and he wasn't the main attraction, which Stiles had been, Stiles must be exhausted. Although he had wanted to dance with Stiles, which was new and exciting to him because he had never liked dancing and never wanted to dance with anyone, but he had wanted to spend that time with Stiles in his arms as if the rest of the people were gone, and there was only Stiles and the music, he had not had the chance.

When they got back to the hotel Derek asked if he could join Stiles in his bed, which was fast becoming a habit between the two and Stiles answered distractedly, before deciding that he would bathe before bed, but with most of the hotel staff already abed he made do with a bowl of hot water, in which he washed his hair, humming under his breath as he did so, so his hair was wet and freshly oiled when he climbed into bed, not even bothering with his night rail.

Derek mimicked the gesture with a cursory wash of his armpits and genitals, before washing his face, sliding into the bed naked too. Stiles snuggled up next to him, burying himself in Derek's warmth, though he was slightly chill to the touch despite the warm summer night, but when Derek's hand curled down to his waist, as much to fix him in place as enjoying the touch. "I’m tired," Stiles said and rolled over, pressing his hips against Derek's, his back to his chest and Derek's arm held like a comforter against his front. "Chcę nienawidziec ciębie za to co mi uczyniles," Stiles muttered in Polish to the hand that was he was holding to his chest, "ale twoja zyczliwosc maci mi w glowie. Byłoby znacznie prosciej ciębie nienawidzić."

"I love you too," Derek said into his hair.

—-

Derek was aware of the sensation before he was fully awake. There was a hot wet sensation around his cock, and he wondered if he had had a wet dream, which he had not since he was a teen at school, but he was sleeping tucked up against his own omega and it was not a surprise that his body might act on its own. He struggled awake, expected to wake up with a wet and sticky lap, with Stiles in his arms, in the hope that he could extricate himself before disturbing Stiles, but he was lying on his back.

He opened his eyes, and there was Stiles, squatting like an incubus above him.

He had his hands either side of Derek's hips and his mouth wrapped around Derek's cock, curling his tongue around the head. “Stiles?” Derek asked, trying to drag himself from sleep and not jerk his hips up into that inviting warmth. “What are you doing?”

Stiles raised his head to almost sneer at him, “what do you think I’m doing, I’m getting you hard enough to knot me.”

“Is that what you want?” Derek asked, his facing cracking on a yawn as Stiles continued to move his hand over his member. The touch was distracting, and the way he was squatting against Derek he could feel the softness Stiles’ cheek against him.

“What does it matter what I want? Isn't it what you want, husband, to be all knotted up tight inside my hot cunny, to husband my use and my value.”

Derek jerked away like Stiles had bitten him. “Stiles, love, what is wrong.”

“Don't call me that.” Stiles lashed out, “You don't love me.”

“Stiles?” Derek asked because he had no idea what was going through Stiles’ head. “Where has this come from? Did someone say something to you at the ball?”

“Why would someone say something to me?” Stiles asked in the same arch tone, “is there something perhaps that you did not wish me to hear?”

“Stiles,” Derek said, “what has gotten into you?”

“Not you, apparently," Stiles said, taking back his hand and wiping it on his thigh. He was clearly unhappy and sneering at Derek.

“Is that what you want?” Derek asked, lurching forward and pushing Stiles back into the bed, “you want me to knot you? to treat you like a common beta whore?”

“At least then I’d know you want me,” Stiles snarled back, his face bare inches from Derek's, close enough that when he spoke the flecks of spittle sprayed him.

“Want you?” Derek answered, quiet in his rage, “you drive me mad, I want nothing more than to pin you to the wall and push myself up inside you. I want to see you flush with completion, I want to see you round with child, and lying in your bed with a sleepy babe draped upon you. I want you all the time for every thing. I want your mouth and your hands. I want you so much I cannot think for want of you. I wanted you the first time I saw you.” He sucked in a great breath and tried to calm his mind. "I want to see you laugh, I want to see you eat like you've never seen food in your life. I want to grow old with you.”

“Pretty words, from an alpha so flaccid he can't even knot his omega.” Stiles was snarling, completely enraged, snapping his teeth.

“You want me to knot you." Derek snarked back, he used his knees to part Stiles’ thighs, forcing him to roll his hips up so that Derek's cock was right against his ass. He thrust up, rubbing his cock between the cheeks of his ass, and what he found there stopped him. “You're not wet.”

Whenever they had done anything before that was even slightly sexual Stiles had gotten wet, sometimes enough he had had to wipe himself off, apologising like it was something to be ashamed of. Derek had been quick to assure him it was something coveted. If an omega was wet it meant that they were aroused and sex would be both easier and more enjoyable for them both. In teaching Derek about sex as an alpha Peter was adamant that an omega that wasn’t wet wouldn't achieve float and knotting an omega that wasn’t in float was awkward and painful.

Derek was pretty certain that it was true, and that Peter had learned that the hard way. It was something Peter had been so adamant about, something so sure of, that Derek had accepted it as true.

“Then get me wet.” It was a challenge, and Derek wanted nothing more, he wanted to push Stiles back into the mattress, to push his thighs open and up, so he could get his mouth there where Stiles would get wet, where he could open him with his mouth but Stiles not being wet, when he got wet so easily, had been like cold water on Derek's libido. He was caught between the concept of doing what Stiles wanted, although it was clearly for all the wrong reasons, and not hurting him; to try and work out what was going on in Stiles’ head.

“What’s the matter, husband, not alpha enough to knot your bride.” It was a taunt.

“Too alpha to simply take what I want," Derek said, but his hands were still on Stiles’ shoulders, still pressing him into the mattress, and their breath was close enough to mingle, and his beard was tickling Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles thrust his hips down, grinding the cleft of his ass against Derek's cock, making him groan. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” Stiles snarled, “got everything you wanted, the perfectly accomplished omega, snatched you right out of the grasping hands of the mothers and Lady Vesey, you can buy me all the jewelry you wish and I’d still be cheaper than her- because it doesn't matter, does it? Because it all still belongs to you.”

“You spoke to Kate Argent," what little Derek understood of this made a little more sense now.

“I did," Stiles answered.

“Stiles, she’s a liar, you know better than to listen to her, and you'd listen to her rather than me." Stiles was rubbing his ass aginst Derek's cock, determined to force his alpha into knotting him. “What did she tell you, that I didn't want you, that I’m just biding my time until she gets me into her London house. Every time I've spoken to her and she’s flirted with me I have told her I have no interest in her or her games, and she can find others to play them.”

"I love that you think that’s what’s wrong.” Stiles snarled again, “she told me, Derek, about what happened in Bath.” Derek jerked back, there were several things it could be. "Is it true?” Stiles pressed, “but your reaction tells me enough.”

"I don't know what I’m accused of, of sniffing around you like you were a bitch in heat, that's true, of being struck stupid every time you looked at me, that’s true as well.”

“Did you compromise me, you son of a bitch?”

Anyone else Derek would have struck for speaking of his mother like that. “It's not that simple, Stiles." He answered.

"Oh, it very much is," Stiles snarled back, “seventy thousand pounds is a lot of reasons to accidentally arrange being caught leaving my room.”

"I didn't know it was your room." Derek blurted out his response.

“How rich," Stiles said, and there was a lump in his throat, Derek could hear it, “I’m not even the one you wanted.” He pushed Derek away and Derek, silenced and surprised by what Stiles had said, and let him slide out from underneath him. Stiles pulled on a dressing gown. “Don't ask to come to me tomorrow night, I won't say yes.”

—-

Derek sat next to Boyd watching Stiles gambol with the children on the beach, he had found two large slim branches of driftwood and was holding them to his head like antlers as he chased after the laughing children. They were both nobles and peasant, not caring of class or gender, just running amok on the sand.

They were shrieking with laughter, some of them barely sturdy on their feet, watched by pleasantly amused nurses, mothers and elder sibling who were caught between wanting to appear adult and enjoying the game.

Stiles, like the children, had stripped down to just his breeches and shirt, so the sand and spray did not ruin his clothes, as he bellowed and lowed at them to make them run and squeal.

"If he sees you here he will return to his distemper," Boyd warned. Boyd had not been pleased with taking the role of chaperone for the omega, he had thought it would involve an endless whirl of tea and shopping, neither of which Boyd cared for, but Stiles had wanted to walk the beach and when the children invited him to play he had done so willingly.

“I do not know why he is so vexed with me. All he has told me is that Kate Argent is carrying gossip that is frankly untrue.” Derek said, “but when I tried to explain that to him the story got tangled and he got more angered before he left the room. He walked out on me at breakfast, left his meal half finished, simply finished his chocolate and went to dress.”

Boyd was not pleased to have these conversations with his lord, sometimes he wondered if he could reinforce the usual boundaries between lord and valet, but he had never really had those boundaries with his lord. Derek had always treated him more like a friend, and with kindnesses, such as one would give a friend, and perhaps if the ease of his labours were the advantages of these awkward conversations then he was more than happy to share them, but Boyd never forgot that Derek was his lord, even if Derek did.

“It is not an easy life, being an omega, for all of the trinkets and embellishments that are used to disguise it,” Boyd said in his quiet way. “They are raised to be sought after, and wanted, they are fancied up with dowers and their alphas raise them to be the bride they wanted, they are given the skills that their parents wished that they had in their omega parents. Then they are married to someone their alpha parent chooses for them. If the parent is indulgent they might let the omega have the illusion of choice. They are paraded around like prize sow at market, as their parents present them to the best bidders whilst watching to make sure that no one snatches their jewel or the things that make them valuable, then they are given to another alpha and expected to bear children that they have no rights to, to manage a house in which they are just property, although they do their best to pretend to personhood. Their alphas throw wealth at them knowing it will be the alpha's to keep, and at best if they are granted a divorce, if the alpha is cruel, their alpha parent might have put provision for them to be kept.”

“I’m not like that," Derek protested. “I want him to be my equal.”

On the beach Stiles had been wrestled to the ground by a conglomerate of the children, who were climbing all over him, laughing, with one particularly tenacious toddler in a skeleton suit, attempting to tickle him, but it was more like flapping his hands against him like a bizarre form of patting him down. He was laughing and contorting like he was having an apoplectic fit, his head thrown back as the children tried to pin him like he was the protagonist in Jonathan Swift's novel, using their greater numbers against his size.

“Have you ever tried to tell him that, or did you treat him like a prized pet to be adored and coddled and spoiled?”

Derek looked, for a moment like he might be about to contradict him. "I know you had your solicitors put his dowry into trust for him, and I know that you cannot touch it, but it's also something you chose for him. I know you’re infatuated to the point of stupidity, but I would put money on it that you did not tell him.”

Derek remained silent because he had not.

“Your boy has, as far as I can tell, being told by other omegas, by alphas like Whittemore, that the only reason people will want him is that stupidly extravagant dowry of his, and he’s too loud, too brash, too open for the season and the gathered nobility there to find the best brides, and no omega parent to present him, so he was sent to accompany Vidama Martin, whose parents were only interested in him for his wealth because it meant they could use his season to present hers without paying," Boyd watched as Stiles wrestled one of the older children to the ground before pretending to bite and gnaw on the children with highly exaggerated noises and gestures, to make the children squeal with more laughter. "If you spend your life being told your only worth is money, why would you be surprised someone went to that much effort to win it?”

“He won't listen- if I do tell him.”

Boyd reached into his jacket and handed over a small item to Derek, “maybe you need to show it.”

Sitting in Derek’s palm was a small ceramic shuttle with a blue john shaft, he had bought it in Bath the day they had gone there because Lydia was out of sorts. Derek closed his hand around it before he slipped it into his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Stiles says is this  
> “I want to hate you for what you have done to me but you remain kind and that confuses me so much. It would be much easier to hate you.”
> 
> thanks to Tarabotti who wonderfully fixed my Polish for me, so the reason that he speaks like a person and not a robot hell bent on human domination is thanks to her


	27. in which a fine carpet is ruined

The move into the Brighton house was uneventful. Following a day running amok with the children of the _ton_ on the beach, watched over by amused nurses, Stiles was fatigued and quiet. He barely picked at his supper before retiring to his bed, his new maid following him to brush the sand from his hair.

Stiles had walked alongside Derek, as fashion dictated, but had resisted any attempts to draw him into a conversation. “You looked like you enjoyed your day." Derek began as they walked along the promenade.

“Did my behavior embarrass you, my lord?” Stiles asked stiffly. "I have been made aware it is not what is expected of the _ton_.”

“I care not a wick what the _ton_ expects of you.” Derek told him, "I care that you enjoyed your day.”

"Perhaps it was the image of me surrounded by children," Stiles said in an arch tone, as he brushed sand from his jacket as they walked.

“Perhaps it was the image of you laughing." Derek corrected him, “I wish you would not believe the worst of me. You seem determined that I exist only to cause you ill will.”

“You are my lord," Stiles said, "I am observant to your will.” And then fell silent and would no longer be engaged in even small talk, ignoring any further attempt Derek made to talk to him.

At supper he was despondent, moving his food around his plate before retiring with his pockets full of scones telling Derek that it was the company, not the food that made his food sour, and kept his wine glass full.

The two master suites in the Brighton house shared an adjoining door, and when Derek knocked on it to wish Stiles goodnight, Stiles’ new maid answered, “I’m sorry, my lord, but I must tell you that his lordship has specifically said you are not to be granted access for any reason, and if the house is on fire I shall alert him for you.”

“I merely wanted to wish him good night," Derek said, chastened by this tiny girl in front of him.

“I shall let him know, my lord," and with that exclamation, she closed the door and he heard the distinctive sound of the key turning in the lock.

Derek did not sleep well.

 

 

The next day he was sandy-eyed and out of sorts, he had missed Stiles at breakfast - Stiles had eaten in his room, and when he went to call upon him in the front parlour he was told that his lordship had gone for a walk with Lady Grayson and the dogs, he was expected, however, for tea.

Tea was awkward, with the two of them sat at opposite ends of the small table, there were cakes and small slices of cucumber or cress sandwiches. There was an orange, sliced and drizzled with honey in a bowl, but Stiles sipped his tea. “I was planning to invite Lady Grayson to dinner." He said quietly.

“Certainly, make sure to give your plans to the kitchen, they will do their best to accommodate your wishes,” Derek answered him, as he put his cup on the saucer on the table. “Is there anyone else you wish to invite, I shall make sure that the invitations are out. I know you are close to Lady Grayson, Vidama Romero, and her sister are here in Brighton, would you like them to be invited too?”

“And if I wished to invite Lady Vesey?” Stiles asked archly.

"I would bite my tongue for the entirety of the meal, unless it was your plan to discredit her,” Derek left it open, “in which case I would make sure that most of the worst gossips in Brighton were present to make sure it stuck.”

Despite himself, Stiles smiled. He was still angry. “If I invite everyone in Brighton but her,” Stiles asked.

“I shall make sure to get a larger table," Derek told him. “And hire extra staff for the kitchen. I tell you, consistently, that as a Marquise, only your will is an impediment to your desires, if you wish to throw a dinner large enough for the whole town, with the exception of Lady Vesey, I shall have an assembly room booked.”

“Is this for reparation?” Stiles asked, “you will use wealth to supply me with apologies you yourself will not give.”

“I will not apologize for marrying you, Stiles,” Derek said, taking one of the buttered rolls, biting into it whilst Stiles watched. Stiles was silent as he stopped and chewed the bite.

“What about for compromising me?” Stiles asked, “will you tell me what happened that has Kate Argent snickering behind my back at me.”

Derek reached into his pocket and placed a small box on the table. “Remember the day we went to Bath- before I proposed.”

“You didn't propose, my father told me of our incipient marriage,” Stiles corrected him quickly.

“My apologies, before I asked your father," Derek corrected himself, “I bought that for you then. My intent was to present it to you and ask permission to court you.”

Stiles put down his cup and snatched the box, opening it to reveal the shuttle, which he held in his fingers. “It's useless, you realize," he said.

"I suspected as much, but nevertheless it should explain my motivation, I saw it and the shopkeeper talked me into paying a large amount simply to please you, I was susceptible to the idea that it would make you smile, and then I placed it in my pocket and forgot in the argument with Vidama Martin,” Derek said. "I spent my time at the Whittemore with my uncle and your father, who was observant in my attentions to you. It was in relation to that conversation that I entered your room,” Derek explained quietly. “We had been drinking and Vidama Martin left the room in a temper, you were quick to follow her, and you were in the nursery, although I did not know that. Your father mentioned that you shared Vidama Martin's discontent and that it made him dyspeptic. I had been drinking and was more foxed than I believed, so I explained I had peppermint oil in my luggage, but I had dismissed Boyd for the evening, so I went to get it myself. I tried to enter my room when I entered yours, I was trying to fetch something from my luggage.”

Stiles said nothing but urged him onwards with his silence.

“It was the way the house was built, I used the wrong stairs and came out on the wrong floor. I opened what I believed was my door and I saw, immediately, that it was not, and so I left the room. I saw Kate Argent there smirking, though I do not know what she was doing amongst the omega rooms, and your father was a step behind. He knew that nothing had happened and even with Kate there-there was no shame or scandal. I did not compromise you, love, I promise you that.” Derek was holding himself open as he spoke, hoping against hope that Stiles would understand.

“Yet the next morning my father told me we were to be married, and within three days we were,” Stiles said.

"I asked your father for permission to court you, my intent was that we could take our time and we could learn if we were a good fit, and your father admitted his worry that people were attempting terrible things to win your hand, and my simple mistake was, in comparison, nothing to upset him. As we talked he admitted that he had wished a fine suitor for you and that you had little idea of your worth, as those jealous of your dowry had done what they could to strip you of your confidence, and those who attempted to court you were disreputable at best. He told me of how Parrish had found a gentleman, although I do not know if the word applied, in the grounds of the embassy trying to get through your window, and sent him on his way with the use of a flintlock.”

Stiles looked surprised by that information.

“Your dowry, even with the conditions your father put upon it, would drive many a fine gent to actions that would put a criminal to shame. Whilst Vidama Martin was the diamond of the _ton_ your father was scared that you would be assaulted and forced into marriage that way, and the more we talked the more I wished to be sure that I could protect you. I wished to be your alpha more than anything in my life.”

“And the dowry?” Stiles asked, “did you not want it?”

"No, nor did I take it.” Derek said, “that first morning in London I went to the solicitors to have both your name placed on my accounts as my bride, and to have your dowry placed in trust for you. Knowing I would not receive that amount for the first year, from your father's conditions, to try and sway the sense of those who wished to coerce you into a quick marriage, and between us, we agreed that you would marry me." Derek stopped, and took a long swallow of his tea, his throat was dry from all the talking.

“And why would you not simply tell me this?” Stiles answered.

“Your father asked me not to,” Derek said. “He said that he had done his best to keep you from the horrors of the alphas that pursued you, how you were watched so closely to prevent those who wished to steal or hurt you.” Stiles chewed slowly on one of the small sandwiches, taking large bites and each movement of his jaw was slow and deliberate. “I think between them your father and Peter planned our marriage long before we met.”

"It would not surprise me.” Stiles said, “I just wish they had been honest, but then why did you abandon me to run to Edinburgh? You do not know Lydia and you have been honest about how your uncle's mistakes and follies are his own to suffer through, yet you rushed across England and into Scotland, and told her to place the things she needed.” Stiles crossed his legs as he sat back in his chair, his tea cup and saucer in his hands, showing off to Derek the length of his thighs in his white corduroy pants, and the fine line of his calf in his silk stockings, and his leather shoe with it’s painted wooden heel.

“Because she is your friend, and you care for her, and would care for her ruin," Derek said simply. "My uncle believes I did it so you would look well at me. He thinks that I did it so I could be a white knight to you.”

“And yet I did not.” Stiles said, “I would be unsurprised at this point if Peter didn't arrange what he did to cover for his escape with Lydia.”

“Nor would I," Derek agreed. “He would do such a thing, but I do not think he expected me to be so smitten that I would chase him down with his valet so that he could chide him all the way back.” He smiled to himself, a simple private thing almost covered by his beard, “and that Vidama Martin, I mean Vidama Hale, has less tolerance for his bullshit than we do.”

“She has no tolerance for foolery.” Stiles said, “it is no surprise that he is bowed to her will. She is more practical than I, she will accept a husband who is fond of her and does not hit her for her standards are lower than mine, she thinks that Peter will be indulgent and discreet. I can not accept the same, Derek, perhaps it is because I am not English.”

“Stiles," Derek said, leaning forward, "I spent days in the saddle going to Scotland on the off chance that you cared about your friend, I can honestly say that I am smitten, I formed calluses on my ass and considered it a job well done and I did it just to make you smile.”

“For now," Stiles said quietly. “Why should I believe you? I am fed up of being a trinket.”

“What do you want from me? You baffle me as much I believe that I do you, we have not communicated as much as we should.” Derek wanted nothing more than for Stiles to be happy. "I don't want you to just be a trinket, a shiny thing I present at balls to dissuade society’s mama's from tricking me or forcing me to marry their children.”

“I want to know where it is that I stand,” Stiles snapped, “I am your Marquise, but I do know what that means, your sister is mistress of Beeleigh, the London House feels like a museum to your mother and her taste, and the one thing I changed, moving a vase was met by the disappointed clucking of the house-keeper. I do not even have my own maid yet.”

“The one you have now is very solicitous, would you like to offer her a permanent position?” Derek asked, “it is your decision, if you wish to change any of the staff you can do so, you are the Marquise, that includes the clucking housekeeper in London.”

“Just be honest," Stiles snapped before he put down his tea cup. “If something happens in either of our lives you must tell me, do not worry if it will upset me, but tell me. Boyd spoke in your favor, he is loyal, to the point I do not believe we pay him enough for such loyalty.”

“There is not a member of staff in Britain paid enough for Boyd’s loyalty," Derek muttered under his breath, suggesting a very long complicated conversation between the lord and his valet, that was, at worst, ongoing, “but he is very well paid, but I can try my utmost to be honest. My intent was to pursue you from the moment I saw you although I did do my best to deny it, even to myself. My uncle brought me to Bath in the hope I would catch your eye, I am certain of that, however, as I know my uncle I do believe it is because he thought that we would be a good match. His timing is suspect, but his intent, no, I do believe he was genuine in that.”

“Do you think we are a good match?” Stiles asked, “and if I asked for an annulment would you give me one?”

Derek clenched his teeth before he answered. “No.” He said firmly. "I would not.” He put his cup down on the table with a clatter in its saucer. “There are several reasons, if I were to gain you an annulment or a divorce you would be ruined, although I have put your dowry in trust for you, and you would not want for wealth, but you would lack protection, and I do believe that given time we would be a good match. I have never lied to you about that. If after a year you continue to wish for our marriage to be annulled I shall grant it.”

"I don't want an annulment," Stiles said, "I don't know what I want, sometimes I want you to want me.”

“Love," Derek said, reaching forward as if to take Stiles’ hand but at the last moment he stopped himself, his hand still held out, “never doubt that I want you, sometimes I want you so much it is like to drive me from my mind, I want nothing more than to spend my life with you, with you, not the Stilinski omega, not with the vidame with the obscene dowry, with you; with the boy who stuffs scones into his pockets like a squirrel. I want the boy who puts his ice cold feet on the curve of my calves and laughs when I jerk away.

“I want the feel of your ears against my cheek when I curl up around you, and the way you hold my hand against your heart when you sleep and kick your feet. I want the boy who sneaks his puppies into the bed when he thinks I’m asleep because he thinks I won't let him. I love how indulgent with me you are, and how you stripped off to dance in the rain like it was a wonder. I want the boy who laughs so intently with his whole body I fear he is going to fling himself from the chair and I damn near leap forward to catch him.

“I want the boy who made Duke laugh so much he got a piece of biscuit stuck up his nose. I want the boy who held my nephew like he was a powder keg about to explode. I want the boy who trades wits with Peter like it's not a wonder in itself to keep up with him. I want the boy who sings bawds in Polish to the members of the ton just because you know Whittmore won’t understand what you are singing. I want the boy who sat under the rowan blossoms looking like you were a creature from a Shakespeare's play.

“So, yes, Stiles, you do not have to doubt that I want you. Sometimes my want for you is so great that I cannot breathe for it.”

In Stiles’ hands, the teacup was rattling, and his mouth hung slightly open.

In that moment Derek wanted nothing more than to kiss him but he didn't dare.

Stiles dropped the teacup and Derek watched it fall, as if in slow motion, but by the time the cup shattered on the tile floor Stiles was in his arms kissing him roughly, crudely, in fact, almost missing Derek's mouth, and using his hips to push Derek’s arms out of the way to crawl into the chair with him, and Stiles’ lips tasted of salt, like he had been crying, but Derek pushed the table of cakes and sandwiches out of the way, not caring when it clattered, splattering it contents over the aubusson carpet, and put his hands on Stiles’ ass, simply because it was the easiest place to grab him, and pulled him tight into his embrace.


	28. in which Derek buys pastries

The night of their reconciliation Derek discovered Stiles would still not allow him entry into his bedchamber. His maid looked a little harried as she locked the door. The next morning Stiles took his breakfast in his room and refused to leave his bed. When Derek asked if they needed to send for the doctor she told him it was perfectly natural, just very unwanted. Throughout the day pots of chocolate, an earthenware jug wrapped in wool cloth full of hot water, and pens and paper went into the room. Paper went in and letters came out, addressed to many people, but Derek, even when he offered to carry his meal tray, was not allowed in.

“He is having his courses, my lord," the maid, Beth said finally, taking the tray from him, “he does not wish to be seen in this state, he is complaining about a pimple on his chin that is invisible to the naked eye but is to him, the sort of thing astronomers record, he is telling me he's fat, he’s cranky, his head hurts, his joints hurt and he is loathe to leave his chamberpot for any length of time. All of which is perfectly normal, it does not mean that he is not suffering through it, or that he wants you, whose good opinion matters to him, to see it.”

“I do not care, only that he is happy, is there anything I can get that might improve his situation?”

Beth looked at him like he had offered her eternal youth and beauty and not the simple running of an errand. “There is a confectionery in town, it is well known, you probably know the one, they sell a biscuit called “ _minni_ _di Sant Agat_ or Saint Agatha's breasts, they are stuffed with every good thing in the world, he has lost his appetite but has confessed that they are his favourite, I might be able to coerce him to eat, and chocolate fancies, I have heard that they ease the cramps.”

Derek pulled out paper and wrote down everything on her list that she thought might aid, including lavender oil to ease his headache, but he got the impression she was going to recommend anything. The Grandmarshall had said that Stiles was insufferable in his suffering and it seemed Beth was of the opinion that he already was.

Boyd accompanied him to the confectioners, and waited for him in the lending library whilst they made the cookies for him specifically and gave him some extra bakes from a batch of cookies studded with sesame seeds whilst they waited and the baker, an old Italian lady who looked like she had survived the very worst the world could do for her clucked over Boyd and slipped him a candied cherry when she thought Derek was not looking.

When he returned to the Brighton house the butler was carrying what appeared to be a carafe of gin and took the box with a “milord," and the expression that he might be going to his death as he carried it up the stairs.

The kitchen offered only cheese and pickle for Derek's tea, and then for supper it was a casserole that he suspected was left over from the night before. It was as good as all of the food from the kitchen but it did feel a little thrown together, but the bread that accompanied it was fresh, and a steady stream of confections and chocolate went into the main bedroom.

That night, a little heavy in his cups and feeling very unnecessary he went to bed with the puppies draped across the bed.

The next day there was still no sign of his bride, and little effort made to take care of him and the entire staff doing what they could to make his bride happy.

He walked the dogs along the beach, letting them play with the gathered children in the fine June day, and made an arrangement to visit one of the clubs for gentlemen that evening, mostly because he had nothing else to do.

He left instructions that he would eat at the club, and spent the evening playing billiards with a gentleman he knew, and returned in the early hours of the morning, to find the puppies had already taken his bed and he had to fit himself around them, but sitting on his pillow, covered with a silver cloche was a pair of the breast cookies, arranged to look like a pair of eyes over a drawn smile on scrap paper.

He took one bite and fed the rest to the dogs, they were sweet enough to make his teeth itch, but if Stiles liked them he would make sure they were always available, and that he wouldn't have to share them. He wondered if Laura would like them, but neither of his sisters, like Derek himself, had sweet teeth. Peter, however, might get a visceral thrill from watching his new omega devouring cakes that looked like breasts, his sense of humor was not much separated from Stiles in that way.

He was not drunk enough for this, he actually missed Stiles, a fate made worse by Stiles being in the next room. He did not know how long the average period of courses lasted for a male omega but as he lay in bed, a little foxed, still scraping the sweetness from his tongue, and Alyosha licking his toes as if it would take the sweetness from his mouth, as Vasilisa did not seem so bothered, that he would certainly learn.

On the third day, he made the decision that if Stiles had not appeared by the next day he would most certainly force his way into his bedroom to make sure that he was well.

It did not matter for Stiles emerged for supper, wearing his night shirt and looking like he had been unwell, but clearly feeling much better, he ate everything placed in front of him, kissed Derek on the cheek, assured him he was well, and that it would be very sweet of Derek if he would check with Lady Grayson as to when would be good for her to come over for supper. He knew it was a terrible imposition but Stiles was clearly recovering. His maid, Beth, had chewed her fingernails to the quick, so whatever had happened in that room had been harrowing.

During that night Stiles climbed out of his own bed, shirked his night rail, the one with the leg o' mutton sleeves that covered him from collar to toes in thick fabric, and wearing nothing but his skin and a pair of soft black cotton breeches climbed into bed with Derek, burying his face into the crook of his armpit, and snuffling his way back into sleep.

The next morning when Derek awoke Stiles was in the bath, singing loudly with the door open as Beth fussed over him, and tried to wash his hair. “Husband," Stiles called when he saw him, “I am feeling much better today, once I am clean I have a plan for how we’re going to spend today.”

“Really?" Derek asked him, he wasn't really awake yet, and he wondered if it had been the noise of Stiles singing which he had woken him.

“Yes, I have a full day planned, and I thought that once the lingering stench of the past few days is gone that I might share it with you.” He stood up, his hair was still slick with soap, and Beth was clearly done, she had reached the same level of exhaustion with her employer that Boyd was so good with. It meant that Stiles was stood in front of Derek naked, for the long moment that it took before she had lifted a sheet and wrapped it around him with an angry huffing noise.

“You, sir," she said, “are as willful as a child.”

“Not a child," Stiles corrected her, “a marquise," and Derek couldn't help but laugh.

—-

Because the Brighton House was several miles outside of town and abutted the sea front it allowed Stiles to take advantage of the seclusion and bathe naked. Derek made sure that the staff were not allowed near the sea front in case they gained an eyeful, and he was not sure which of them would be more embarrassed, the poor staff member or Derek. Stiles just seemed to enjoy the water.

He urged Derek to slough his clothes and join him, standing waist deep in the water and slapping it with his hands, showing Derek a hint of thigh, or the top of his ass, the dip of his spine, knowing full well what it was that the sight did to Derek, and then when he left the water, with it running down his thighs, into the hairless crease of his sex, and waving Derek and his sheet away, to lie naked in the sand.

He repeated this, sometimes eating something from the basket of treats that they had brought with them, or taking cups of sweet cider, biting into boiled eggs with an impish expression.

It was possible he was trying to seduce Derek, unfortunately, Derek was so paranoid someone might see him it was not working at all.

Stiles did, eventually, dress and return to the house, sun-warm and completely pleased with how he had spent his day. He accepted his mail from Boyd and went upstairs to dress for supper, although that was mostly putting on clothes that were not full of sand.

After supper he made a point to sit on the same couch with Derek and drape himself over him. “I hate having my courses," Stiles said as Derek sipped brandy, Stiles himself did not care for it and was drinking port sweetened with lemon and water, “I spend one day on the chamberpot, one day with tremendous cramps and the third day sweaty and really needy.”

“Needy?” Derek should have known better to ask.

"I ache, darling," he said, “crazed and needing someone to touch me, but I would understand if no one wished to at that point, I am sweaty, mucky, and generally unpleasant, I have a pad of moss tied to my ass to catch what is slopping out but I spent that day imagining your hands on me, I imagined you in my bed, feeding me candies, the candies I know you fetched for me, and your hands," he took one of Derek's hands in his own, "I imagined them parting my thighs, I love how rough the skin is against my own, the calluses here,” he ran the pad of his thumb over them, “from holding reins, when I touch myself I think of them.”

Derek made a noise and every part of him understood completely when he turned and flipped Stiles onto the rug and pinned him with his body. "I’m only human, love," Derek said into the skin of his throat, “if you do not want this, stop me now whilst I still can stop.”

“Stop?” Stiles laughed against him, "I’ve been trying to get you to do this all day.” He wrapped his arms around Derek’s hips, pulling them down into the splayed vee of his own, “you found me candies that they only sell for a few days every year because you thought I might like them, such devotion put you in my thoughts whilst my blood boiled with desire, if the very thought of you brought me to completion with tears in my eyes at the touch of my own hand, how much sweeter will it be when it is your hands upon me, your mouth.”

Derek got to his feet and lifted Stiles as if he was a child, tucked against his hips, "I’m not knotting you for the first time upon a rug.”

Stiles’ laugh was a bright, golden thing, “but it's such a fine rug," he said as Derek carried him up the stairs, “it might even be French.”

“The bed is English," Derek corrected, “and we are at war with the French.”

“I think the knotting chair is German,” Stiles said, as Derek pushed open the door, with Stiles in his arms, draped over his hip, with his legs, Boyd scuttles down the corridor like a beetle someone has set aflame. “And I’m Polish, so it’s like we’ll be fucking our way around Europe.”

Derek couldn't stop himself laughing. He found he didn't want to.

—-

Stiles kissed like he did everything, with his whole body, hands pushing up Derek's shirt from his pants, his legs, with knees bent and pushing at Derek's own, trying to grab Derek and pull him down into him, but with no real idea how to do it.

His eagerness to help was actually making it harder to remove his clothes.

“Shush,” Derek murmured into his mouth as he tried to lift him to remove his jacket, Stiles was so intent on not letting go of his hands that all Derek was managing was to push it off his shoulders.

Stiles reacted with a cry when he was flipped so Derek could get his jacket off, "I don't want you to let go," Derek told him, "I want to get these out of the way.”

Stiles' mouth fell open and Derek had to chase it with his mouth, as Stiles started to wriggle causing his jacket, a fine velvet Stevenson, to fall from his shoulders and catch at his cuffs, as soon as it was loose of one wrist the other was tugging it free and throwing across the floor. His shirt didn't take much after, and then his hands were pulling and scrabbling, not at the fall of his own pants, but those of his husband.

“Off, off," Stiles said, and made a pleased noise when Derek tugged his shirt up over his head, “you are a fine looking man.” He licked his lips, they were slightly swollen from kisses, “you look like an alpha that could hold me up against the wall and force his way into me, who could use his virility to support me on his knot, a knot so big it would pump me so full of seed that my belly swells, so you could put your hand on it and feel it slosh around inside, my handsome alpha," and that was how the torrent of filth started.

If Peter was to believed then omega were innocent lambs who could be seduced into the pleasures of the flesh and whose parents kept hem cossetted away so that the idea that anything more than kissing would surprise them.

Clearly whoever had thought that to be a universal truth had never encountered an omega like Stiles.

In many ways he was virginal, he was shy and tentative in his touches because he didn't know what certain touches would do, but he did know what he wanted to try, and was willing to speak of the sort of things gentlemen didn't even mention amongst themselves at their clubs.

But Derek wanted.

Derek jerked Stiles’ pants down, around his thighs, snapping the laces of his fall, then, he flipped them so Stiles was underneath him, before using a hand on the soft flesh of his stomach to flip him to his knees. “No, Derek," Stiles grabbed the wooden edge of the headboard, pushing the bed’s curtain out of the way, “that’s dirty," Derek parted the cheeks of his ass and took his first look at the slick there. Stiles was soaked. It had wet the fabric of his pants and was glistening like oil on his thighs.

Derek made a noise despite himself, before he lowered his mouth to the skin there and Stiles’ constant protestations that it was dirty, that Derek was not to use his mouth there, it was his ass, for crying out loud, was cut off as if Derek had flipped a switch, followed by a grunt, and then a long whining moan.

Taking that as permission Derek did what he had wanted to do, perhaps from the moment that he had seen Stiles walking the grounds of the Whittemore estate with Lydia and chased by a pair of mops and a hunting spaniel. He ran his tongue over the flesh there, guzzling like a pig at supper, pulling the slick onto his tongue and swallowing it down like it was wine.

Stiles was cursing in Polish and trying to force his hips back into Derek so Derek was safely guessing that he liked it. The cursing was fluid and his hips were rolling, and he made a noise, not unlike Alyosha when Derek had accidentally stood on his foot when Derek pushed his finger inside.

Derek knew, academically, that omega were built to take alpha cocks, which were larger than beta cocks, but not by much, and it varied, obviously, from alpha to alpha, and Derek guessed he was comfortably endowed, and his knot was not much smaller than his fist. He knew Stiles could take his cock as long as he was wet, but he didn't want to hurt him, he wanted Stiles to enjoy it, to welcome Derek into his bed.

Derek had always enjoyed fucking, and he wanted Stiles to as well. Derek wanted to spend a lifetime wrapped in Stiles, and he wanted him to have sex with him, often, and not just to take his alpha rights, where he could demand the use of Stiles’ body. Stiles was enjoying his education and he wanted to continue that as he licked around his finger, dipping his tongue into Stiles and listening to him yip in pleasure, and then let out a deep groan followed by what was clearly a curse.

“Proszę,” Stiles said, and it sounded like he was begging.

“Soon," Derek told him, “soon, my love, I don't want to hurt you.”

“Proszę," Stiles repeated, turning his head to look at Derek, his eyes were watering, and his cock, small as it was, hard between his legs. He must have been very close.

“Soon,” Derek said, placing a small bite on the flesh of Stiles' ass cheek, adding a second finger to help stretch him out so he'd be ready for him.

“Proszę,” Stiles said again.

“Am I hurting you?” Derek asked.

"Nie, Nie, wiecej proszę,” Stiles had lost all coherency and was talking in Polish, which was clearly what he had spoken at the embassy. “kocham Cię, proszę.”

“Anything, anything," Derek said, placing kisses on the knobs of Stiles’ spine, he himself was so hard it hurt, and he had to take a moment to breathe so he could push inside Stiles without reaching his climax immediately and knotting without giving Stiles any pleasure.

“Proszę teraz," Stiles said and took his hands from the headboard and started scrabbling back with his hands, one of them plucking at his nipples, hard and tight on his chest, and the other looking for Derek and batting against his thigh. Stiles rolled over to his back, showing the soft skin of his belly, the splay of his thighs, and his small hard cocklet.

“Soon," Derek said, pressing kisses to Stiles’ mouth, and chin, “soon.”

Stiles was not a meek biddable omega, he was wild and free and determined, and wrapped his hand around Derek's cock, and tried to push it against himself, so he could try and impale himself, but he couldn't quite line them up right, and with a grunt he arched his back to push his hips down and pushed the head of Derek's cock inside himself.

"Knot me," Stiles said in distinct English, “please, please,” as he tried to push more of Derek inside himself his hands started scrabbling at Derek's sides, trying to pull him closer.

Derek was only human, he obeyed, rolling his hips and pushing himself inside where it was hot and tight and his. As Stiles groaned and yipped and cursed he sucked one of those hard little nipples into his mouth. “Love you," Stiles muttered, “love you,” and with that Stiles took his passion, and Derek was not far behind him.


	29. in which Derek is jealous

Stiles drooled. Derek was sure he didn't mean to, but if he fell asleep, or went into float, his mouth would fall open and a steady stream of saliva would soak whatever was underneath him. With babies, nurses would carry around a piece of muslin for the sole purpose of protecting their clothes from spit up, and now Derek thought about it when Stiles had fallen asleep in the carriage on the way to Bath Madame Morrell had given Derek a cloth to put under Stiles’ head. In retrospect, it had been a receiving cloth to protect his jacket, not from powder, as Derek had assumed at the time, but spit.

Stiles seemed oblivious to the presence of these cloths under the pillows of their marital bed, and how once knotted up in the tight clutch of Stiles a hand would sneak beneath the pillows for one of these and place it between Stiles’ head and Derek's arm.

They lost days in each other, days Derek mostly remembered as heat and pleasure and searching around for oil and the receiving cloth, which was never to be used for clean up, even if that's what Stiles believed it to be for.

Stiles took to bed play with a zeal. He wanted to try everything and was vocal about what he enjoyed and what he did not. He did not care for people touching his feet, or the strip of flesh beneath his belly but above his groin where he was insanely ticklish, but eased into a state, not unlike float, when Derek kissed his neck.

He was impish and wanted to know everything and try everything, and loved nothing more than finding Derek when he was about something else and climbing upon his lap and demanding kisses. Derek loved to run his thumbs around the low point of Stiles’ omega ears, so different from his own when he kissed him, with his hands on either side of his face and his thumbs rubbing, as Stiles made those delicious yip noises.

Derek smashed his mother’s favourite set of houseware sweeping it to the floor after supper when Stiles swung his legs up over Derek’s, allowing Derek to lie him across the table, and knot him right there with his hand in the butter dish and the remains of dinner all around them, face down on the linen, breeches pulled down around his knees and shirt and jacket pushed up, a napkin pillowed under his head for the inevitable drool.

Derek had never dared such thoughts or desires. They were the sort of thing someone paid a whore for at a brothel, something that was not spoken of where someone who might tell their bride might overhear, not even the sort of thing drunkenly discussed at the club. The idea of rutting into their bride at the supper table, with their fish course congealing on the plate, was almost heretical, and the idea that his bride, a demure omega, wanted these things was unthinkable.

Yet Stiles was voracious when it came to bed play, and unlike many of the whores that Derek had known, he sought it eagerly and did not simply feign it.

He was not sure what it was that he had done to earn marriage to such a creature, but he was eternally grateful.

The only downside, that Derek could think of, was that Stiles drooled and that he was more than happy to suffer through, and moreover he was pleased to give Stiles whatever it was that he wished.

He loved the faint violet and lilac smell from his face creams that lingered in their pillows, and the scratch of the dry skin on his heels, despite him trying to soften them with oils, and the tickle of his hair under Derek's nose when they slept, with Stiles draped across him like a blanket. Derek was, and it surprised him to be such, happy.

Then as suddenly as it happened Stiles rapacious hunger eased. He developed, over the course of a fortnight, a social life, and spoke to Derek of Mariah, Lady Grayson, and Rose, Lady Drake, and Emma, Lady Todd, and often met them for nuncheon, or tea, or one occasion Derek was bundled into finery for supper with them.

Often after spending too much time with the three of them, Stiles was exhausted and fell into bed, often a little drunk, too tired for any kind of bed play, and awake too early in the morning for Derek to urge him into morning frivolities, because when Derek woke Stiles was already up for the day, sometimes about his mail before Derek had even had a cup of coffee, and Derek could not help but feel a little unloved.

Sometimes Stiles even waited in the small parlour for Derek to have his breakfast before he told him what were his plans for the week, like how he explained that they had invitations for Lord Aberforth's masked ball which was the event of the season, and that Derek had nothing to be worried for, that Stiles and Boyd were arranging the costume, and that they knew that Derek was far too busy for most of the arrangements, so he just had to trust them. Then placing a kiss on Derek's mouth he left the room.

Derek was surprised to learn that Stiles was making them masks himself, turning old newspapers into strips and placing them in water and flour over willow frames. “I did not know you could do this.”

"I like to do it," Stiles said, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the sunroom that looked out over the gardens and their structured hedge mazes, that led down to the beach and the sea. The flooring was red brick, polished smooth and oiled to make them shine, and he was sat on it like it was the large silk cushion of the odalisques in Vathek, with two large bowls, one full of hot water, for the willow, and the other full of paste, for the paper, there was even a leather roll full of small files and knives, although Derek had no idea what it is. “I can happily do it all the time, but it’s not great for being in public," he twisted the willow together and tied them together with strips of bark, pulling them from the bowl of water. “Tatting works better for that because I can do it when I’m in a carriage or a drawing room, if I tried to do this there it would not go down well, and the water would almost certainly ruin the upholstery or carpets.”

Derek sat down facing him, “I would not mind, and if you care to do this a lot then we can turn one of the rooms into a work room for you. These are beautiful." There were two masks sitting on the side, a wolf and a fox, painted with water colors to simulate the fur.

“They’re too small." Stiles corrected him, "I got the measurements wrong, I’m sure I can find a home for them, Boyd said some of the servants in Beeleigh have children that will appreciate them, but if they are for play I'd have preferred to do them in leather and varnish, it makes them last longer.”

“You never cease to amaze me,” Derek said.

“Have you solved the problem you are having with the land in Northumberland?” Stiles asked as he worked.

“No," Derek pouted, “every time I refuse to sell he increases his offer, he simply will not take no for an answer, but I don't know why he wants the land.”

“Rose has a tendency to know what gossip is going around, although she does not spread it, her husband is like Peter, he likes to know what others are doing so she listens, she might know why someone is so keen on the land.”

“There is nothing there," Derek protested, “my tenants are a Quaker couple who have a tendency to take in lost children, I don't even charge them rent as long as they maintain the house and gardens. There’s a stream, that isn't quite big enough to be a river, and a pond, which is reasonable for trout fishing. It is a fine place for deer stalking but there are few roads there, the canals are in neighboring lands. It is a fair few hours ride to the nearest cities, it’s just there. If not for the potash mine I would sell it.”

“Sounds like it might be a good place for a mill." Stiles said, “if it's large enough you could build a village there, connect the pond to the canals, and put in a weir.” He started to lay the strips of paper over the framework in his hands, carefully smoothing it out with is fingers. “Being between Newcastle and Manchester I'd probably put in a paper mill, you could use leftover bits from both the cotton mills and the lumber mills in Europe to make paper. You could, very easily, make a lot of money.”

Derek looked at Stiles like he had started to speak in tongues, he had, with his hands busy at the strange labor of making the mask with willow and strips of paper. “If you don't want to sell the land tell Deaton to fire the persistent solicitor. He is your prime factor, is he not?”

“Harris has been a fine solicitor, it is his job to pass on such business offers.”

“If he was good at his job he would inform this mystery buyer to take his offer and leave. Have you considered that he is the buyer, and if so, how much of your own money he is using to buy it? It opens two suggestions, love," he put the mask down, “either you are paying him too much or he has been cribbing from your books. Let Deaton deal with him. You do not deserve the dyspepsia.”

“How?” Derek asked.

“Your kisses," Stiles said, using his palm to smooth out the paper on the mask, “they often taste of peppermint, as if you have been sipping it with water. I know my father takes it for dyspepsia, and the more he has problems with business the more peppermint he takes.” He looked back to his mask, “also, don't forget we have that engagement this evening, Boyd has been told to put out the green jacket that brings out your eyes. Shall I see you then?” And with that Derek was dismissed.

—

Sebastien Valet oozed sex, to the point where Derek was convinced that he left a shimmering silvery trail of it behind him when he walked. Handsome, dark-eyed and swarthy he did not talk as much as purr his way through the English language and Derek hated him.

Most especially because he was talking to Stiles, and worse, Stiles was laughing at something he said.

Valet was leaning into Stiles’ space, crowding over him, and then Stiles reached into his jacket and trying to be surreptitious, but failing, gave Valet a letter. Derek reacted like any English man to this, he called over one of the footmen and asked for a brandy.

Stiles sat next to him for dinner, ignoring Valet as if he was a stranger, and made quiet asides to Derek to make him laugh as if that was his intent all along. After they had eaten Stiles had looped his arm through his husband, “are you well, Derek?” he asked as he led him to a quiet part of the room, away from the smoke of the pipes. “You barely spoke through dinner.”

“I imagine I’m just a little tired," Derek said.

“Then we shall make our excuses and leave, Rose won’t mind, I imagine she’ll leer a bit but other than that.” He went to go but Derek grabbed his hand.

“Aren't you worried about your new friend?” Derek asked, perhaps more roughly than he had intended.

"My new friend?” Stiles seemed genuinely baffled by the accusation.

“Valet,” Derek almost growled it out, the brandy made his tongue loose and his anger sharp.

“Oh that," Stiles said as if it did not matter at all, “I was doing a favour for Peter,” he qualified, “I mentioned that I had seen him here in Brighton and he asked me to pass on a piece of mail that he had collected by mistake that was intended for him. That’s all it was, Monsieur Valet was grateful that I had gone to the effort, I had Rose invite him so I could pass the letter to him without any scandal. Had I thought you would care I would have told you.”

Derek didn't quite believe him. “Beloved," Stiles looked a little impish as he considered it. He was wearing a dark red satin coat with matching flared knee breeches and a peacock colored vest but both lacked the heavy embroidery common to omega clothes. He looked like he did not fit, too rich for the simple English tastes but making those who followed the more common strictures of English fashion, the colors being enough to make him shine. He wore a pair of pearl drop ear fobs that showed the length of his neck to best effect, “are you jealous?” Stiles’ grin was wide and brilliant. “Shall I tell you about the time I kissed a prince?”

Derek couldn't help it, he growled. “Of course I was five and he was seven, and he tasted like cloves because one of his baby teeth was rotten and his papa just kept shoving more and more clove oil in there, it had to be pulled eventually, but he demanded that I kiss him, I did not want to so he stole the kiss, and then his papa grabbed him by the ear and there was a huge lecture in Russian about how to treat an omega, never mind that only five minutes before we were wrestling trying to catch one of the embassy cats.” He was still grinning, his fingers now in the buttons of Derek's vest, “You see rolling around with an omega is fine, but kisses, those are rationed.”


	30. in which Derek's eyes are opened very wide

Stiles was nervous, carrying a small velvet pouch that he worried, he would pick it up, look as if he was going to say something to Derek and then slip it into his pocket and go quiet and frustrated.

Derek tactfully ignored this for three days before he decided to confront him.

Whatever it was Derek knew it had something to do with Lady Todd and the meetings between the two which Stiles was close-lipped about, and left after breakfast to do. Derek wasn't sure that he liked Lady Todd, who had a wicked smirk and a red pelisse that he could see coming like an omen of doom.

“Stiles," Derek said over a shared breakfast the day before the masque which Stiles had been preparing for. “Are you ever going to talk to me about what it is that is bothering you?”

Stiles nearly choked on the piece of toast that he had just bitten into, and blushed clear to the roots of his hair. He had to wash his mouth out with coffee before he spoke.”It’s," he took out his pouch and then placed it on the table, undoing the gathered top and shook out a glass thing the likes of which Derek had never seen.

It looked not entirely unlike the spade on a deck of cards, but the staff was longer and it ended in what appeared to be a molded glass rose. The entire thing was clear except for the rose which was cranberry colored glass. It was not a large thing, perhaps as wide as two fingers at it's width and certainly no longer than four inches.

"My _poche_ aches," Stiles admitted finally, “so I went to see Lady Frostrup and she said it was perfectly normal, it's like, you know how when you go swimming for the first time in the summer and muscles ache because you’re using them in new ways, it's like that, and apparently it happens to omega all the time. Just because the muscles are designed for that doesn’t mean they’re used to it, and I had to talk to Lady Frostrup about these things and she’s really old and kinda touchy, but she ordered it for me, and it’s to help.”

Derek goggled. “I have no idea what it is that you're saying.” He told him.

“My _poche_ , Derek," Stiles tried to explain, “I," and that was when Stiles realized that Derek had no idea what he was talking about at all, possibly due to the fact he had no clue what a poche was. “You know how omegas are designed to be knotted, we have this little pocket of muscle that opens for it, like a little pouch, our _poche_ ," he lifted the little velvet pouch, and put his hand, gathered into a fist with it, stretching out the circle of fabric. “And I love it when you do that, I am as responsible as you are because I like to grind into it as grows, as you know." Derek did know that. “But the muscle gets used and I've never used it before, and it aches, you know." He then took his hand from the pouch and lifted the wand. “This is a _pochelette_ , it’s to help stretch the muscle so it doesn't ache as badly.”

“Why didn't you tell me I was hurting you?” Derek asked.

“Because you're not," Stiles was saying, “I've never been knotted and the muscle doesn't know what to do, it just needs training and that’s what this is for." He was waving the _pochelette_ around like a baton, “after you knot me you put this in and it holds the muscle open a little, not as much as your knot, but it keeps my rim tight.”

“I put that in your cunny?” Derek was agog.

Stiles, blushing again, nodded.

“I had no idea it was a necessity.” He said, his voice was calm.

“I did not either.” Stiles admitted, “apparently it's a terrible shame of the way that the British teach their omega children about frolicking, Lady Frostrup said my father should have given me one of these after my first courses, it's also apparently quite pleasant as it allows us to feel full long after your knot has gone down.” Derek made a noise like he was trying to understand but his head was not entirely processing what he was hearing. “I also got a very strict lecture on how to clean it, and how to use it, and how long to wear it. It was awful," he admitted, “because she was really old and she was really detailed, Marie thought it was hilarious, and I had to write to Lydia and she wrote back that no one had told her about a _pochelette_ and now she has ordered one, though I’m not sure hers will have a pink rose at the end, and she said even Peter had never heard of them. It might that she knew all about it because she's French, but she was so old, Derek, and there were demonstrations.”

“She touched you?” Derek was suddenly angry at the idea.

“No, she used her hand and other things, and this one she ordered for me, you can get different sizes, and this is the beginner one, and they can go to like three times the size of your knot. They use them for betas, apparently, to train prostitutes to take a knot, and you can leave them in your ass. It's all terrible, you can see why I was so embarrassed to tell you.”

He was still waving it around like a baton and he was conducting an imaginary orchestra.

“Do you want to try it?” Derek wasn't sure where the question came from, but he liked the idea of Stiles opening up for him, and using the wand to give him pleasure. Stiles answering grin was wolfish.

—-

Lady Frostrup might have been the oldest member of the ton, she was a tiny black omega whose hair had been teased into little white pin curls that looked like whorls upon her head. She had reached that stage, common in black women, where they could be any age between thirty and a hundred, but time had made the omega smaller, and according to Peter, meaner, like she was distilling much like vinegar.

She was, like Boyd, American, but she had married a French nobleman, and gone to the court after he had gone to Louisiana, then when he died, she married another, he died in La Terreur, and she had gone back to Louisiana, she married an American who died, then a British officer bringing her to England, and when he died she married another alpha, who she had so far outlived by ten years, much to the consternation of his family from his first omega, as they were forced to keep her, and because she was so old, although no one was quite sure how old because no one was brave enough to ask, she kept a house in Brighton and a full staff, and even occasionally threw parties that they were forced to pay for. As the new Lord Frostrup was getting to the age where he might die of old age he was just getting more and more cheap.

It was unlikely his alpha daughter would be any more delighted to keep who they called his father’s whore, but would still have to, never mind she had a large personal fortune of her own, and one of the great debates of the ton was who was going to inherit it, as the children that she had, with at least one of her alphas, had died. She had been so vocally disapproving of the meanness of her new family she might just leave everything to her cat, and she would buy a cat just to do it.

So Derek hated that he felt obligated to visit her, and worse, to offer her an invitation to supper. No one really invited her to anything because she had a tendency to enjoy being old and doing things that she could happily explain as being the problems of being old, like breaking wind at the dinner table, or falling asleep at a poetry reading - and she snored loud enough that Derek remembered being ushered out of such an event by his mother because he couldn't stop laughing. He was also sure, now he was older, she had done it to make him laugh further humiliating the poor young beta reading.

Yet the omegas of the ton, the married ones, at any rate, all seemed to include her in their machinations and speak of her fondly, and now Stiles was among them, and he wanted her to come to supper but was still too busy to deliver the invitation in person.

Derek was led into a small cozy room, that looked like it was better suited to being a pantry with the walls lined with cabinets, where a few over stuffed couches had blankets draped over them and a large fire roared in the grate despite the hot July day. Lady Frostrup was buried in a pile of blankets, not unlike Vasilissa preferred, looking like a queen. She was wearing a wool gown, that looked like it belonged in a historical painting, that covered her from throat to toes, and her feet were propped on a padded stool pointed towards the fire, but alongside it, she wore a king’s ransom in jewelry. There were chains of pearls affixed to a tiara that fell in strings under her chin, a matching pair of strings were fixed to her shoulders with large golden brooches, there was a diamond choker and her thin fingers were crammed with rings. There was also a long thin stemmed pipe hanging from her mouth, with thick, sweetly scented smoke pouring from it.

"I feel the cold." She said, and indicated with a nod of her head that he should sit. She left an open silence then for him to speak. When he did not. “I know who you are, boy," she said, she famously used boy or child to describe everyone, she was old enough it no longer mattered. “Are you offended by the frankness I favor, I’m old, boy, if you take too long to get to the point I might die, so spit it out before supper. I have a new chef and he understands that foods get under my teeth," she grimaced to show him her fine new teeth, “and it is one of the few things I look forward to, so unless you wish to share chicken and white wine cassoulet with me talk.”

“That does sound fine," Derek said, “but you saw my _Mari_ recently, and you gave him a fine gift,” Derek was not one to balk at frankness but at the same time some things were private.”

“Yes, the _pochelette_." She said, smacking her lips around her pipe. “You English are so ashamed of your bodies, you think your shit is white.”

“It is a national failing," Derek agreed.

“Your uncle at least flirts with me, he reminds me why I hate people.” She took a long suck from her pipe, letting the smoke billow from her lips.

“He reminds most people of that, but I am here to invite you to supper. Stiles would have come himself but with the masquerade, he is very busy at the moment.”

Lady Frostrup cackled. “Clever little darling," she said, “he invites me knowing I will probably not attend and so he can offer me kindnesses in return.”

“I think he did wish for you to attend." Derek corrected her, “or he would not have sent me, and just sent it in writing.”

"I know," she said and grinned at him with her sharp white teeth. “He knows if I attend I will offend all the other people who are attending, and they’ll start to refuse his invitations so he doesn’t have to expect them, especially people he doesn't care for, they will consider him a naif and not blame him for my behaviour whilst alienating the people he does not want to socialise with. So if he needs to he can make amends.”

“I am sure it's not nearly that contrived.”

Lady Frostrup stretched herself out like a cat, “You think so little of omega, you train us to be as great as statesmen and give us no war to fight, no kingdoms to outwit, then you are surprised we wage war amongst ourselves. Your boy is bright and charming, we fight at dinner tables and balls, it probably amuses him to destroy those who wrong him, but to do so and remain blameless, that is the greatest fun, if he does it correctly then he will seem the victim. Inviting me to supper means either I do not attend and he simpers through a meal with people he needs to curry favor with but does not care for, or I do attend and offend them for him, and he is seen only as being too kind to know better.”

Derek considered this before he spoke. “That explains so much.” He said, “I understand that I know little, but I am prepared to learn.”

“Then you are a better man than your uncle, although he brings me candies when he comes to call. He wishes to know what I know of the pleasures of the flesh, but I am coy in what I tell him.” When she grinned she looked like a heavily decorated prune. There was the heavy implication in what she said that the next time he came to call, and she expected that he would, there would be candies for her, or perhaps tobacco for her pipe. Anything more extravagant would be seen as untoward. “He has not been to see me this summer, and he is not one to miss the Brighton set.”

“Have you heard that he has married?” Derek asked.

"I had heard the rumor, but his letters are coy, he tells me nothing about his new bride, perhaps he thinks I shall corrupt her. Though I do not believe the Peter that I know would be swayed by one who was innocent.”

“She is very clever.” Derek said, "I imagine that he has not brought her to see you because she is with child and it is not best for her to travel now she is already in the country.”

“Nonsense, she is pregnant, not incapable," she muttered under her breath, “but if she has caught Peter she must be clever indeed, and very good at feigning disinterest in her bed play." Derek made a noise of disbelief, "you have not considered such, imagine you lying with your Maciej, and him being bored, no matter what you do, what would you do, even as he urged you on, sounding like he would much rather be doing anything else."

"My pride would not allow it," Derek said.

“And your uncle is far more proud than you, most of the courtesans who have men flocking to them like flies, they are the ones who are the cruelest in the bed, they either offer something no one else will, certainly not their Mari, if they even dare to ask for it, perhaps pain, or control, or disdain. The more they disdain the more obsessive their lovers become." When it looked like he might not believe her, "I have outlived five husbands, and unlike Lady Vesey, a vile woman I have no patience for, I have never been accused of their murder, even in whispers. I know much about pleasure and what goes unsaid even within the walls of brothels.”

“Are you aware that it is often not the topic of your conversations that make people uncomfortable, but that you are so old and thus they expect you to be dozing in front of the fire and being dead from the waist down.”

She cackled again, “but where is the fun in that? you may tell your boy I will happily attend his supper if nothing else it should be interesting to watch everything come to fruit.”

Derek didn't dare ask her what she meant by that.


	31. in which they attend the masque

The Masque was a tight press of people, and the hot July night, although early in the month, was thick with humidity despite the breeze that came from the sea and through the windows of the assembly rooms, there was simply too many people for it to be comfortable.

Unusually people were gravitating to the lemonade as opposed to the wine such gatherings usually managed.

Stiles had arranged the costume Derek wore, a plush black velvet Stevenson jacket over a silver moire silk vest, with a matching fob chain. His pants were the same black velvet and Boyd had polished his boots to an almost obnoxious shine.

His mask, finished with a pair of golden glass eyes, was a wolf with a ragged edge to the papier mache and an open mouth with a lolling red felt tongue through sharp white painted teeth.

It was an exquisite mask, but it paled in comparison to the one that Stiles had made for himself. He had decided to come as a peacock so he would stand out, in a teal velvet Stevenson from which came a river of painted silk in a waterfall train to form the feathers of his tail. Other than that he was in white silk, except his stockings which were yellow with matching jacquard shoes. That he had put these elaborate costumes together in almost no time was a testament to how skilled omega were trained to be in such things.

His mask was shaped like the head of the peacock perched upon his forehead and actually braided into his hair. When he had explained the costumes to Derek he had been clear that they were nobility and they were highly ranked so they had to be the best dressed or people would gossip.

With his costume Stiles was wearing chips of turquoise like strings of beads and matching earrings that hung along his neck and unlike Derek, who wore a linen cravat pinned with a large piece of Whitby jet, carved like a rampant wolf, he wore a fine lace cravat that was pushed down to show the line of his throat and the edge of a kiss mark there.

He flitted around on Derek's arm like a decoration and laughed politely when people made the poor jokes that seemed their stock. He danced politely with a few alphas that asked, but always returned to Derek, often carrying a pair of glasses of lemonade, although he rarely took more than a sip himself.

There were cakes, and Stiles carefully using his cravat to wipe up sweat from the back of his neck and was talking politely to someone whose name Derek had not paid attention to and Lady Drake, who was only a little older than Stiles, although Lord Drake was very old and didn't attend, Lady Drake had confessed to Derek that he was old and cantankerous and liked nothing more than a fully belly, a glass of port and a pipe by the fire.

Derek admitted that he was exactly the same, but that Stiles liked to socialize and he was still so newly married that he was unkeen to leave him for long periods of time.

“Derek," Stiles said turning, “I feel strange," and that was all the warning got before Stiles wilted like a flower. Derek caught him before he hit the floor and Lady Drake, who could not have been more than 5 foot tall bulled her way through the crowds like a battering ram to a waiter who took them to a private room with an old chaise over which a blanket was draped.

“You there, boy,” Lady Drake said to the waiter, “fetch me some lemonade, a cloth and a jug of cold water, make sure the water is as cold as you can get it, you," she turned to Derek, “see if you can get that window open, whilst I try to extricate this mask," even as she said it she was loosening his cravat with one hand, and his vest with the other.

“..Rek," Stiles muttered opening his eyes in slow flutters, “happened?”

“You swooned,” Lady Drake said, “no," she pressed her hand against his chest to stop him sitting up, “just lie there for a moment. Stiles, love," she said softly, “I have to ask, might you be with child?”

“No," he murmured, still a little drowsy, as Derek made sure all of the windows were open so the room was as full of fresh air as he was capable. "I just had my courses three weeks since." Derek nodded sagely, there were horrors there.

"I’m just a little wobbly,” he said, "I’ll be fine.”

"It’s probably the heat and the press.” She said running her hand over his forehead, "I’ve sent one of the waiters to get some lemonade, I want you to drink it all, for me, and I’ll send him to bring your carriage around. I’ll do my best to mitigate the gossip.”

“Kate will be determined," Stiles said throwing one of his arms over his eyes, “I’ll be pregnant, I’ll be miscarrying, I’ll be being starved, it will be in the papers tomorrow. I didn't mean to be a spectacle.”

Lady Drake snorted in laughter, “did I ever tell you about how after I was presented to the queen for my debut I slipped on the carpet on the way out and went down the stairs on my ass, hitting each tread on the way. At the time it seems like the absolute end of the world, and I’m sure every lady and omega out there have a similar story. I would not worry about Kate Argent, gossip comes and goes. So for a week people will go, oh the marquise swooned at the ball, and think of a hundred reasons before deciding it was your mask because they will be envious, and then someone else will do something, and the topic will shift. It always does.”

“It does not matter," Derek said, “I do not care what the _ton_ think of you.”

Lady Drake was taking the things she had requested from the waiter who had returned, before telling him to send for the Hale carriage, and she turned and looked at Derek, who was now crouching beside the chaise, “such an alpha answer," she told him, “these things matter to us, if he is shamed enough he would have to move to the country, or worse, the continent. Even with the war, there are stars of the _ton_ who found themselves better situated in Paris than London.”

“Stiles is a marquise," Derek protested as Stiles sipped at the lemonade she had given him, she took the piece of cloth and soaked it in the water, then wrung it out, draping it over his forehead. “He will be the one to set fashion, if he decides that swooning at a ball where there were too many people and it was too hot and humid, then everyone will be doing it next week.”

“We do not forget," Lady Drake countered, “The Duchess of Devonshire at a party once got so drunk that her wig caught fire, she nearly burned the entire assembly rooms down, she was not held accountable for it, for she was a duchess but she was never allowed to forget it either. It’s been fifty years and we remember. In contrast Stiles, swooning is five minutes amusement, nothing more.” She was a firm lady and Derek rather liked her. “Can you lift him, my lord?” she asked, “to take him back to your townhouse?”

Derek slipped his arms under him as Lady Drake made sure of the cloth on his forehead and that Stiles did not drop the large tankard of lemonade that he was holding, or that he stopped drinking.

Derek carried him out into the main room so he could carry him to the stairs when it became clear Stiles swooning was already forgotten when they emerged. Lady Vesey, Kate Argent, in a lion mask, was shouting with Sebastien Valet and there was talk of solicitors and court. Whatever Valet was responding with Derek could not hear, nor did he care much, but Kate looked to be one moment away from striking him.

She was leaning forward into his space, and he was matching her, but where she was bellowing like a bull, Valet was quiet and almost smirking, whatever it was that they were so publicly arguing about he was sure that he had the power in that argument.

“He is my son!” Kate shouted, “and you will not take him from me.”

“The law is explicit," Valet said quietly, “the child is the responsibility of their alpha parent, which is me. I have your written word that I am his parent, you know that the courts will agree with me, Catherine," with his accent he purred his rs and dropped his h’s, so Catherine became Caterin.

“You don't care about him,” Kate accused, “you have never shown any interest in him.”

“Do you, Catherine?” he asked, “do you know the child's name, you keep him close because you maintain the lie that he is Lord Vesey’s natural born son, and as such you remain his widow.” That might have been the natural conclusion of what he was saying but that did not mean it was common for these things to be said out loud.

“He _is_ his father, my Henry is his father’s son, he is a Vesey.”

“Then I shall see you in court, Catherine,” Sebastien said, “if you can find a solicitor that you can retain.”

He went to turn but she grabbed his arm, “you are a French louse and you will die one, but you will not have my son.”

“Then you must change the law, because this case will be about who is the father, which father gets the right to keep him, the law will never favor the mother.”

That was when Kate slapped him, with a full open slap, right across his face.

Derek decided it had escalated past the point that he was comfortable with and took Stiles down the stairs to the carriage, where Boyd was waiting. He took Stiles and settled him into the seat despite Stiles’ protestations now that he was fine.

“She’ll be destroyed," Stiles said, and he sounded almost rueful about it, “her family will cast her out, the Veseys will disinherit her, and they’ll take her baby." He put his hand, the tankard of lemonade beside him on the bench seat, “do you ever think that sometimes you are crueler than you should be?”

“You can't hold yourself accountable for what she did.” Derek said, as Stiles leaned back against the cushions of the bench, “she made her own decisions and she must live with them.”

“Would it be so bad?” Stiles asked, “if I was with child?”

“Oh, love,” Derek said, pushing forward and cupping Stiles face in his hands. “I would be grateful.”

Stiles frowned, then wriggled out of his jacket, draping it over the bench beside him. “I feel very unwell," he said, “but it might be nothing more than the heat and the press, and I feel awful for Kate Argent, as cruel as she was to me, I am not sure she deserves to be destroyed.”

“You are a kind soul," Derek said, “but she did everything to herself, Stiles, simply wishing for her to be destroyed does not destroy her. Having ill wishes for someone is normal, and not a great sin.”

“I gave him the letter," Stiles said.

"Letter?”

Stiles suddenly lurched to the door, shouting “stop the carriage,” when it came to a stop he stumbled to the road and was sick into the bush that was there, Derek was a step behind him, holding the lemonade and then patting him on the back. His kerchief was sacrificed that Stiles might wipe his mouth down.

“Are you sure you are not with child?” Derek asked.

“It's too soon to tell," Stiles said, “and certainly too soon for such sickness, I have probably just done too much in the heat, I shall sleep in a dark room and be fine in the morning. Derek, take me home.”


	32. in which Stiles repeats that he is assuredly not pregnant

Stiles had not slept well, he had to rise several times in the night to discharge his stomach into his chamber pot and felt both clammy cold and hot. After the third time Derek informed him he was cancelling his engagements for the day, which had just included shopping with Lady Todd, and staying a bed and the doctor would be calling, whether Stiles felt he needed him or not.

Stiles reassured him it was likely the fish he had had for supper, combined with the heat and the press and the busyness of the past few days and he was not sick and did not need a doctor.

The doctor did not agree.

The doctor arrived just before breakfast when Stiles was wrapped up in one of Derek's shirts and a pair of his pants, and the bear fur from the carriage wrapped around him. There was a fire in the grate and Boyd had been coerced into reading to him from Pamela.

"I do not believe this," Stiles groused to Derek after a light breakfast of consomme and lightly toasted white bread, with no butter, “the doctor believes my sickness is because my blood is thin, so what does he do," he held out his wrist to show the cuts there, “he bleeds me, as I do not need more of my thin blood in my body.”

Derek kissed him on the forehead and told him he would be in London for the day for he had some urgent business about that terrible business in Northumberland which would not, it seemed, be simply resolved, and he had some candidates that Deaton thought would make a good secretary, for be believed that Derek, having just married, would be better served spending time with his new beloved than at business, but understood that he could not allow his work concerns to slide, so a secretary seemed the best option.

That meant in conjunction with feeling so drastically unwell, and he did, he was left with Boyd, drowsing on the sofa as Boyd read from the book in a monotone only slightly more entertaining than the novel itself.

Lady Todd bulled her way inside once she learned that he had cancelled their shopping expedition, showing up with a basket and a pair of elbows that Boyd would later claim were repurposed knives.

She took Boyd’s chair and shooed him off.

From her basket she pulled a pair of bottles, and a cloth of candies, then her embroidery which she laid upon her lap before she even removed her hat and pelisse. “Well," she said to the fur wrapped lump that was considered to be the marquise, “it seems that you are not the subject of the day's gossip, Brighton today, does not care that you swooned, there was a little talk I am told, of your swoon,” Stiles grunted, “and then it was more that they were envious of your handsome alpha carrying you, most of our husbands would chide us for being on the floor, at how much our gowns cost to be so ruined. I am not sure many of them would even be able to catch us, I think my Jason would try, but would probably put his back out if and would drop me with a groan.”

“Emma," Stiles moaned, “why are you here? I am sick.”

“So is half of Brighton," Lady Todd said with some delight, “it seems that there was something amiss with the food at the masque, I personally never eat at masques, you never know what their chefs are passing off in their _petits fancies_ , but yes, Lord Rule was found come dawn in a ditch on the way home, where he had decided to enjoy the night air, and was overcome, and with Lady Vesey soon to be engaged in a legal battle the scandal mongers do not care.”

She gestured over to one of the servants who stood at the wall waiting for Stiles to ask for something, “bring us a pair of glasses."

"I’m not drinking today," Stiles grumbled, “I am sick.”

"It is ginger beer, when I was with child and sick to my stomach it was the only thing that helped settle me," she said, “and with all of Brighton crouched over their chamberpots I decided that I would spend time with you, so where is your most attentive alpha.”

“Called into London about that terrible Northumberland business, he is also trying to find a secretary, which his factor thinks he should have long since.” Stiles swung his legs, revealing his bare feet, down over the edge of the couch so he was sitting up, letting the bear fur collapse into a heap on his back, “he was most apologetic but it is best it is sorted quickly.”

“Well, I have asked a few questions and it seems it is a Mr Crosby Drelincourt who is pressing in regards to that land. He is reassured by his solicitor, who I am told, is the same as your husband, that the land will be for sale if he presses hard enough, perhaps it is simply that he thinks that your husband will decide it is too much bother and rescind his rejection.”

Stiles laughed, but it was weak, “then he is much mistaken, for Derek is as stubborn as an ox.”

“Alphas tend to be, I was wondering if it might be worth inviting both Mr Drelincourt and your husband to supper, that they might settle it without the solicitors involved, but if you are correct with how it upsets him perhaps that is not so wise, because fisticuffs, whilst entertaining, has a tendency to destroy those things I use to decorate my home.”

Stiles laughed, pulling the fur over his knees, “but it is entertaining." He agreed.

“It was my favourite vase," Lady Todd pouted, working at her embroidery with her lower lip pointing out in an exaggerated manner.

One of the servants, Stiles was unsure of his name, brought forth, on a small silver tray, a pair of sherry goblets made of crystal. “Oh no, dear," she said, “we will be drinking small beer, I’m sure there are a pair of tankards around somewhere, now take a candy and change them, darling.”

The boy, balancing the tray of goblets with one hand, picked up one of the peppermints and doffed a clumsy bow with a muttered, “my lady.”

“I am sure my penchant for feeding my servants sweets is why they are all so fat, and why clothing them costs so much, but my kitchen boy makes the best sweetmeats, and I do not have the heart to prevent him from the joy of sharing them. He made a set of candied violets which tasted almost like seeing god, he used them to decorate a rather banal cake, I am terrified someone will offer him more money to work for them, I do not have much of a sweet tooth, unlike my Jason, but the boy is incredibly talented.”

Stiles just arranged the bear fur over his legs, as she talked, Lady Todd was a pleasant conversationalist but she often did not need someone to talk to, and Stiles felt so positively unwell he was content to let her talk.

It was a pair of leather tankards that the boy brought forward and offered to pour, but Lady Todd assured him that they were fine. She popped the cork out with a strong thumb, and, managing her embroidery tambour on her knee, she poured out two mugs of the ginger beer. It made the air sharp with the sting of the ginger.

"I am not pregnant, you know,” Stiles felt it bore repeating.

“That is fine,” she said, “however you have a handsome alpha and you are young and fertile, unless you are taking measures against it I imagine you will announce a pregnancy by new year, unless," she gave him a look that was judging, “I cannot imagine that you are not.”

“Emma!” Stiles was a little scandalised, ladies of the _bon ton_ did not speak of these things.

“He is handsome, good strong shoulders and a pretty tight waist, and his breeches are highly praised in certain circles, and his calves are thing of beauty. His valet is well spoken of as doing wonders in framing his best features.” She had an amused look like she was partaking in a joke for which only she knew the punchline.

“If you mean his ass, Emma, say his ass, I have spent the morning voiding my stomach into a bowl, my head hurts, and I ache, the doctor decided my blood was thin and his solution was to bleed me so my arm hurts, I am too unwell to beat around the bush. Yes, his ass is spectacular and breeches do it no favours.”

“Really?” she asked. “It does look like a pleasant handful."

Stiles spread his hands, “I cannot be so coarse," he said, “I am a well mannered omega," he curled up holding his ginger beer, pulling his legs back up on the couch. “It is not proper to say how his knot is easily the size of a large orange, or that he makes the most pleasant noise if I grab at his spectacular ass and pull him further into me. But I do take care that I am not with child, his sister has just been delivered of a son, and his uncle's new wife, Lydia, is set for a Christmas babe, so it will be inappropriate for me to have a child so soon. We do not want to overwhelm the family with new offspring, then no one would notice my baby when there are so many others.”

“Do you wish to be with child?” she asked.

Stiles yawned, and then considered what it was that she was asking. "I don't know." He said honestly, “I had just gotten used to be a debutante and the constant reassurance that if I married it would be for my dower, that I was a bad omega, for I can be a flitterwit and then I was married so quickly, within a few days of meeting him, and business took him away from me for over a sennight, and it's all been so quickly, and adding a child to that would be so much more, I do not think it would be best and I might resent a child. I think I would like my life to settle a little, it is very much a whirlwind and I would like it to calm down a little that I might enjoy my pregnancy and parenting.”

“And your alpha does not pressure you?” Lady Todd asked, “for I know how easily they do so without malicious intent.”

“He would not pressure me to eat when I was hungry." Stiles said, “with all the scandal that surrounded our marriage, because of Lady Vesey’s gossip mongering and cruelty, he is wracked with guilt.”

“Then you are blessed indeed," She said, and with a series of lusty swallows, drained her tankard, putting her hand over her mouth and belching. “But we can certainly talk about Lady Vesey, it does appear it will be the scandal of the year, and with no way to prove paternity," Lady Todd left it open.

“The boy is the image of Valet apparently," Stiles said, “dark hair, eyes and skin, when both Lord and Lady Vesey were fair.” He burrowed into the fur, leaning back into the nest of pillows that he had made for himself, “I believe it was suspected before that the boy might not be her husband’s but she was married and he accepted the boy, but if she has put it in writing that Valet is the father, and that she wished to know if he wanted to end the pregnancy,”

Lady Todd gave a low whistle, “she enquired of him about that, if she were found guilty of it that is a death sentence, the alphas which rule this country do not understand that it might not be the best for mother or child to continue a pregnancy, they are unduly harsh on those who make a decision counter to what they wish, not that they support the children in any way.”

“As I understand it,” Stiles said, “but my information is mostly from Peter Hale, my uncle, who knows them both, and has been doing what he can to mitigate it from Essex, Lady Vesey was stepping out with Monsieur Valet, they were utterly indiscrete and then when she fell with child she ended it, I do not know if he was distraught over it, but I do know that Peter kept news of the pregnancy from him, for he thought that she would use it to force an arrangement, for Monsieur Valet is rich.”

“And very handsome," Lady Todd muttered, “he is French and there are rumours of such things they can do, are you yet to read Justin," her smile was mischievous and her needle flashed quickly through the fabric, she had forgotten her snips and was using her teeth to sever the threads when she was done. “His hands," she said, "I might like the hands of alphas, often much more than I like them.”

“Well she was foolish to put everything in writing, Uncle Peter was using it to keep her from his family, but her gossip-mongering angered him so I gave the letter he had kept, but it is poor Henry I worry for.” Stiles said, “she has brought her ruin upon herself, but the baby is barely out of swaddling.”

“You feel bad because you are unwell," Lady Todd said sagely, “and I would not worry about the child, Monsieur Valet might be odious and not care for the child, but his sister Madame Lethbridge is a dear, and she will take the child and raise it with her own, Mr Lethbridge adores her and the boy will grow up with her own brood in the country. I would not worry about the baby, I think he might be better off in Leicestershire with the Lethbridges, Lady Vesey uses him to maintain her position with the Veseys who despise her but are wealthy, Valet wants to take the boy because he feels he was wronged by her, but Marie-Jeanne will spoil the boy with affection, and as the first-born of Monsieur Valet he will inherit richly.”

“That is good to know, I have ruined her,” Stiles said, “when the scandal hits the papers the Veseys will cast her out as an adulteress, although they certainly knew that she was, her father will disavow her because he must to maintain his position in parliament, although that might not be the best thing. I do not think her brother’s wife will take her in, so she is thrown on the mercy, such as it is, of the demimonde.”

“And poor Vidama Argent will, of course, suffer for the scandal.”

“There is scandal enough there," Stiles sighed, “she is being courted by the young Lord McCall and his family do not approve of his decision because of the family she is born to.”

“The McCalls do not lack for blunt," Lady Todd said, reaching forward to refill her tankard, “but a lifetime being forced to socialise with the Argents is a large impediment, her father, Vidame Argent, is not too unpleasant, but her mother is very stern and firm, the sort that unsettles other alphas or whose very strength of character urges them into fights although I do not believe it to be her intention. I can see why his family are against the match.”

“I am not supposed to know this," Stiles said, “but his mother is hoping for a match with Vidama Yukimura, Kira is a dear, sweet thing, although perhaps a little biddable in her temperament.”

“A biddable omega is a contradiction in terms.” Lady Todd said sagely, “we all secretly rule the world, and if we’re not devils in our tempers how will we turn our alphas to our will.”

“I have a sheer night rail," Stiles said, “I think my Derek would promise me the world if I told him I would wear it.”

“How scandalous,” Lady Todd said with a smile, "I have a chemise of satin as fine as the hair of angels, it clings to every lump, and bump," she ran her hands over the stomacher of her dress, “and clings delightfully.”

“Paris?” Stiles asked, referring to where it was that she had bought it.

“Florence," she answered, “and the colour is, of course, quite scandalous.”

Stiles looked at her, “red?" he asked, judging by her colouring.

“Gold, it is almost the colour of my skin, I shall have to recommend you to my modiste that you might purchase one for yourself, although the length on me,” she said measuring Stiles with her gaze," is knee length and might only skirt your thighs.”

“My scandalous night rail is entirely open apart from a ribbon at the throat.”

“That is scandalous," Lady Todd laughed, “was it part of your trousseau?”

“My chaperone made it for me," Stiles told her.


	33. in which Stiles gets a welcome visitor

Stiles remained ill for the following two days, and it was generally agreed that the masque had poisoned half of Brighton, so he subsisted mostly on tea and unbuttered toast, having quickly lost his taste for consomme and jellies which were decided to be best for an uncertain stomach. He also had cravings for foods that he requested and then parted with because his mind might have wanted fruit stuffed livers but his stomach did not.

He didn't dress, merely pulling on a pair of Derek's pants and shirt, with a banyan over it, draped over the couch and complained as he drank tea.

He missed Derek and was aware that he was insufferable when he was unwell but he wanted Derek to be there for him, even if it was only being aware that he was present and unwell.

Pamela was no more entertaining in Boyd’s flat unimpressed drawl than it was in print.

Lady Todd had, in a delighted manner, had passed him a book in French that was apparently delightfully scandalous and no one would publish it in English although it was nearly a hundred years old, and about the French who everyone knew were dissolute, which of course made the book even more scandalous. It was called Les Liaisons Dangereuse and told the tale of a wicked alpha and wickeder omega who seduced their way through the nobility and were instrumental in the seduction of a good omega wife.

Boyd could not read French so it and the other book she had sent over later, Justin, and it's sister novel Julien, was also out of the question, at least until he felt better, although they were apparently so scandalous that the author had been imprisoned for writing them.

Lady Todd seemed to have a surfeit of those kinds of novels.

Lady Grayson had supplied him with a few other novels, not those that were necessarily moral, but certainly not banned for obscenity, and Lady Drake had given him a device called a Daedulum that when spun showed a horse running in motion through a clever optical illusion. Apparently, Lord Drake had funded their shipment from Turkey and they had not taken off so the house was full of the damn things. 

It had been amusing for a while, but when Stiles felt unwell he was unable to be amused for any length of time. So he would nap, and listen to Boyd’s monotone recitation of a boring book and sleep more.

Derek wrote to him daily but although his letters were elegant and practiced it did not make up for his absence.

Then when he was finally feeling well his courses began and he felt awful again, although this time, it was with the scandalous books and the strength to read them.

It was nearly a sennight before Derek returned late at night, after Stiles had retired, he had spent the day with Lady Grayson, who was old enough to be his mother, shopping and shared a meal in an inn that was far below their station but had some of the best food that Stiles had eaten in Brighton. Lady Grayson had called it the perfect marriage of bread, grease, salt and crunchy bits. 

It had been delicious and served with a thick frothy beer, that was almost a meal in its own right.

Lady Grayson had been a girl from the theater, a ballet dancer, and part of her was still that girl who had to find large meals for as little as possible, although Lord Grayson was wealthy, he considered his wife’s peccadilloes to be charming and not ruinous. 

So he had gotten in a little drunk and very full, and pleasantly quiet. He had pulled on one of Derek’s banyans, with nothing underneath it because he had been sick and it felt pleasantly scandalous to be lying there in the red wool with it against his skin and his hand on himself, because why not.

Then he heard the carriage pulling up and the clatter of people moving to meet their lord, and Stiles let his legs fall open, he could wait, running fingertips over his nipples, and up to his throat, making sure the banyan was open.

It was late so he was sure that Derek would straight to bed, and Stiles was desirous. His mouth was watering at the very idea.

After a few minutes where it was clear Derek might be taking his time, Stiles got out of bed and lit one of the lamps so that there was some light, and went to his toilette, placing a little rouge on his lips, and being drunk and whimsical, as well as utterly desirous, he smeared a little rouge over his nipples, and then pulled on his cock because it felt wonderful and so he wanted to touch. 

With scent applied and run through is hair, he climbed back in bed and decided to touch just a little whilst he waited.

He was asleep when Derek did come to bed.

The furor of it, as Derek tugged off his boots and letting them hit the floor, woke him. “Missed you," Stiles slurred, “thought of you,”

As Derek looked at him he seemed to flush then he leered, “so I see,” he started to unbutton his vest, “it looks like you started without me.” 

Stiles hummed, running his hands up his neck. He had not considered that he had red enamel on his nails but Derek noticed, “you look positively wanton.”

"I had my courses," Stiles said, running his thumb over his mouth, “I thought we might celebrate me not being pregnant.”

“and not my return?”

“Well I was celebrating by myself," Stiles said, twisting a rouged nipple between two fingers, “I’m just inviting you to join in.”

Derek opened the fall of his pants, “wicked imp, I missed you too.” 

When Derek joined him in his bed he was not naked, not willing to wait that long, he was still wearing his shirt and stockings, but Stiles didn't care when his hands and mouth were upon him.

—-

Stiles liked to take his breakfast in the intimate family dining room, it made life easier for the servants and allowed Beth to lie later in bed before dressing him. He was wearing an emerald green banyan embroidered in gold, and his feet shoved in a pair of Turkish slippers, the ones that he kept by the bed.

He was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and enjoying the pleasant ache of being well loved when he sat down at the table where the day's broadsheets were laid out in preparation for Derek, but Stiles was pretty sure that his husband would not be up for some time.

“Good morning," a voice said.

Half asleep Stiles looked up from the cup of coffee that was poured for him. 

Sitting across from him was his father.

Unlike Stiles, he was dressed for the day and reading the daily papers. The Grandmarshall had always risen with the dawn, citing his history as a soldier, and run the streets of London before anyone else was awake, then washed and ate.

He claimed that the exercise sharpened his appetite, but Stiles suspected, now that he shared a bed with Derek, that the bed simply felt too empty for him now, so he spent no more time in it than he had to.

Stiles missed his mother like an ache but he had never considered that it might be different for his father, grief was a personal thing, but the idea of losing Derek terrified him now, and he did not understand how his father had gone on without her, because his father had accepted exile rather than annulling their marriage when the king announced his intentions towards her. 

No matter how dark the thoughts in his head he offered his father a smile, “good morning, Tata.”

The GrandMarshall reached over and placed a pair of poached eggs upon Stiles’ plate, with a slab of thickly buttered bread, and a ladleful of hollandaise sauce before adding a lemon wedge, and then grinding the pepper.

It was the breakfast that Stiles had had for most of his life, and was comforting to him, but since he had married he kept getting liver and apples, with the servants feeding him before he ordered anything else. As he lifted a fork he mentioned that to his father. “I think it's that persistent rumor that I am with child.” He said with a mouthful of eggs.

“Are you?” The Grandmarshall asked.

“No, I take precautions, and I have just had my courses," he had never been shy with his father about his body, “I nearly hung the sheet out of the window to prove it, although Lydia is nearly six months so and apparently quite demanding, she wants strawberries but it is now the season for blackberries which will not do, and Peter feels so determined to please her he is scouring the country for strawberries out of season, but I imagine she is doing it to prove his affection for her, she wants him to suffer a little, but I can't imagine it is pleasant being with child with the weather so hot.”

“Lydia always was demanding, but when your mari is with child as an alpha you feel overwhelmed with the need to provide for them," his father told him, "I imagine your Derek will be exactly the same.” He took a mouthful of his coffee, “you won't be denying me grandchildren will you.”

“Maybe for a while," Stiles said, “I’d like things to calm down a little, but if you absolutely must have babies to hold Derek's sister was just delivered of a son, and well, Lydia has been like a daughter to you.”

The Grandmarshall smiled around the rim of his coffee cup, “the advantage of grandchildren," he said, “is one gets to give them back. I imagine Lydia might try to entreat me to keep hers if it disrupts her sleep.”

Stiles was still laughing when Derek came down for breakfast. Unlike Stiles, he was fully dressed. “You did not tell me that my father was calling,” Stiles told him.

“I must have been distracted,” Derek said, sitting down, “so, Szerafin, did you sleep well? I am sure that the staff made sure your room was ready.”

"I did decide to join you at the last minute, but the embassy has been empty of late, I can't imagine why," he winked at his son across the table, “I know only one person has left, Madame Morrell has joined the Russian Embassy so it’s as if she never left, but your lack is fully felt, it's almost as if the building is completely uninhabited.”

“Go to Beeleigh,” Stiles said, “even before Aurelian was born it felt overcrowded, Laura is personality enough for at least ten people, and her husband,” he left it open.

“La Loup D’Enfer, he and I know each other well,” the Grandmarshall said, “when he was courting your sister we spent a lot of time together avoiding most of society, it is how I met your uncle, Derek, Deucalion was determined to make a good impression so he joined the same club, and although I shared it, we didn’t move in the same circles. He preferred the gaming rooms and I just wanted to get away with smoking my pipe.”

He looked at his son with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, “someone doesn't like the smell in the house.”

“It smells like burning dead things,” Stiles said, getting himself more eggs, and covering them in hollandaise and bread.

“You have an appetite this morning," Derek said, he himself did not care for much food in the mornings. He could drink his weight in coffee, but he might only have a piece of fruit or a slice of bread to eat.

"I am just delighted," Stiles said, using his bread to mop up the Hollandaise on his plate, “that I am not being served liver and onions, or liver and apples.”

“I believe the doctor said that your blood was thin and that liver and apples or liver and onions were recommended." Derek said as he poured himself some chocolate, “I am sure the staff is just looking out for your health.”

“I am sure that is nothing to do with how new brides are always fed liver in the hope that they are pregnant so that they might get the child off to the absolute best start.”

"I like liver," the sheriff said, “and lightly fried kidneys, chicken livers are a wonderful addition to a meal.”

“I’m bored of it," Stiles said, “for two months no matter what it is that I request for breakfast I am told that they have made me liver. I am not that fond of it regardless.”

"I shall certainly make the staff aware that I do not want you to receive liver if they won't listen to you about it, are they ignoring you and thus need to be replaced.”

"I’m a newlywed omega," Stiles said, “they will cluck over my health, they will lament over my sheets when they are bloodied, I expected it, doesn't mean I like it, but until I have a child they will do this because they mean well. There will be tonics and lotions added to my toilette, there will be oils for my brushes and my bath that I did not order, blankets will appear where I've been found to sit, and sweet dried flowers in prepared fires so that the rooms smell sweet. It will pass when they get used to having me in the house, they mean no harm.”

The Grandmarshall folded over the paper and pushed it across to Derek to show him the article. “It seems that the Veseys, although the paper calls them the V- family," he said changing the subject, “have disinherited Kate entirely according to the gossip sheets." They were always careful to make it clear who was being spoken about whilst not overtly naming them for fear of legal action. The newspapers, especially the gossip pages, had neither the solicitors or money to defend these things. 

“Her husband was more indulgent than his brother," Derek said, watching as Stiles put more bread on his plate and pouring more chocolate into his cup. He enjoyed his every meal and because of it the kitchen staff adored him. He, himself, had made the joke that they could warm up those scraps destined for the pigs and he would not only eat it but lick the plate.

“Her husband wanted access to the Argent coffers, his brother doesn't need them, they kept her entirely on sufferance with the promise her son would inherit, but if there is any question in regards to his paternity he cannot inherit. It would take Lord Vesey signing an affidavit confirming him, and it suits the new Lord Vesey to not, he gets the title and the lands that Kate was holding.”

“And the boy, you know what she is like," Stiles asked,

“He’s been given to his father, no one should worry about him, Lady Lethbridge, according to the paper, was there to make sure of his welfare," the grand marshall told them.

“Monsieur Valet is not the sort I would trust with a small child, and I’m told the boy is a dear thing." Stiles said, “Lady Grayson told me it would be likely that they’d take him to Leicester.”

“If the child did not go to Leicester then Lady Grayson would have sharpened her elbows and forced her way into the situation that she might care for the child herself, how many strays is it that she has adopted,” Derek was amused by the conversation.

“Three, she lost one to his father when he returned from the navy, her Timothy, she was heartbroken," Stiles said, “I am not entirely unsure that she has not adopted me.”

“And what about Lady Vesey?” Derek asked, “does the paper say what her fate is?”

“Her father is sending her to Venice apparently,” The Grandmarshall said, “he has a new husband lined up for her, but that I didn't get from the paper," he emptied his coffee, “when I was in the club they were talking about it, he’s not a pleasant man, but it would not surprise me if they each killed the other, it’s now about controlling the gossip, if she marries that man in Venice, assuming he doesn't run from her and her father has made it clear that if she does not remarry then he will not support her. If only it had taken him from politics as well, then we could abide the entire debacle.”

“Not entirely," Stiles said, “Allison is a dear thing, it would be unfair to exclude her entirely because of her family, and young McCall is trying to win her hand, and I always quite liked Lady McCall, her temper matches my own.”

“He might yet gain some wit," Derek said, “beloved, would you care to ride with me, today?”

Stiles considered. “Yes," he said, “I would like that.”


	34. Epilogue

Stiles started in the kitchen, filling his basket with a few loaves of bread, two bottles of wine, a wheel of cheese and a terrine that had been made for the purpose. He debated taking a cape from the hooks by the door but it was a nice clear day so he decided against it, then took a jug of cider, adding it to his basket, content it wasn't too heavy, and then a few apples as well. There was a knife as well, that he stabbed into the cheese, and covered everything with a cloth.

He then placed a trio of honey cakes on the top knowing what was coming.

Just outside the kitchen garden, set out on blankets Miss Krasikeva had the children for their lessons. She taught the staff children in the afternoon, making sure that that they knew their numbers and letters, but in the mornings she taught the children of the family.

Aurelian Winterbourne was, at five, a handsome lad, with his mother’s black hair, but his father's pale skin and large blue eyes. He would grow to be a beautiful boy, but he was quiet, possibly because he had spent his life sharing the nursery with his cousins, the twins Charlotte and Elizabeth, or Lala and Lottie, who it seemed were determined to exclude or insult him, and had done since birth.

The twins were inseparable, spoiled, beautiful dolls, they were identical and could only be told apart by what they wore, and being blessed by their mother’s wit and their father's tendency to cruel games, so Stiles was mostly sure they swapped clothes just so people would get them confused.

There would never be doubt that they were Peter’s daughters for they looked like him in every way, and sometimes, because they knew it was unsettling, would talk together as one.

Miss Krasikeva was their nurse, and their tutor,and would give them their lessons in the morning and leave them the afternoon free for play where she could keep a distant eye on them.

“Oncle, Oncle," Aurelian said when he spotted them, “are you going to see Oncle at the bridge, are you?” Aurelian was a quiet boy but he had always been confident around Stiles who was quick to pull him into cuddles and muss his hair. If anyone had thought that Aurelian would be spoiled as an alpha boy had not considered that the twins could be as adorable as they could be unsettling.

"I am,” he nodded his head to Miss Krasikeva who smiled.

“Can I come, can I?” Aurelian asked standing up on the blanket, “I have been ever so good, I have.”

“Have you finished your lessons, little one?” Stiles asked.

“No," he admitted ruefully. He pouted.

“Well," Stiles said, “it is still an hour until nuncheon and I know your papa has plans to take you out this afternoon, but if you're not finished your lessons I can't let you go up with me, it's very important you finish your lessons, but," he held a hand up, "I suspected you'd want to come with me," he said, “and I planned ahead, and I can plan ahead because I finished my lessons.”

Miss Krasikeva smiled at him when he pulled the three honey cakes from his basket, “one each," he said, handing them out, “you can save them for when you finish your lessons, so you get a treat before nuncheon.”

“You’ll spoil their appetite, my lord,” Miss Krasikeva said, “with all those sweets.”

"It’s a lovely day, Miss Krasikeva," Stiles said, “and I hated having lessons on days when it was so fine and all I wished to do was play in the gardens, a little honey cake won't do them harm.”

“As you say, my lord,” she bowed her head respectfully, “but given the chance they would eat nothing but, and with sore bellies would lose the taste for them.”

She cast her eye to the swell of his own stomach, barely rounded and filling out the shirt he wore. He was wearing a pair of Derek's pants, long legged, and a shirt, and so his belly was holding out the pants, it wasn't obvious that he was pregnant but to those that knew it was a pleasant reassurance. “I know you have lost the taste for treacle.”

Treacle made him sick to his stomach, the smell of it was enough to make him leave the room which his own guts heaving, and as things went he considered himself lucky. Treacle and sardines were all that his stomach refused so far, but he was sure the list would get longer as his belly swelled. “It is not I who have lost the taste for sweet things," Stiles said, “but my little passenger, he does not care for sweet things.”

“The earl in waiting,” Miss Krasikeva said, “is as demanding as his great aunt, he is willful, and will not stay still.” That was also true, the baby was often restless but it had yet to move in a way that others could feel. The midwife assured him that this was perfectly normal and the babe would be kicking enough to move the taut skin of his belly soon enough.

“I am not so far along," Stiles said, “but he does prefer to lie upon those organs that are responsible for me visiting the privy, I am either voiding my meals from above or peeing like a champion race horse." Saying this made Aurelian giggle, the twins were too dignified for jokes about race horses pissing.

"I am told these are the joys of pregnancy," Miss Krasikeva said with a smile.

“Joys,” Stiles said, “yes,” he ran his free hand over his belly again. “There are some things which are joyous, though, his lordship does like to lie with his head just above my belly, to listen, as if he could hear the heartbeat, it is a steady reassurance that even if I were the size of a whale that he would be delighted with me.”

“The earl is most devoted to you,” she admitted, “now by your leave, my lord, I must finish their lessons if Lord Winterbourne is to have them for the afternoon. I shan't keep you any longer.”

He gave her an apple from his basket. “You are quite right,” Stiles said, “I told his lordship I would bring him some nuncheon whilst he helps at the bridge, he will be hungry by now, and I shouldn't keep him waiting. I still have to walk.”

“What do we say to Oncle?” Miss Krasikeva said.

“Thank you, Oncle,” they said with mouths full of honey cake and faces covered in syrup and flakes of pastry.

—-

The bridge was a fair walk, up the hill to the church, along the path, then down the other side and perhaps half a mile down the road to where the workmen were rebuilding the bridge after it had started to crumble. It had not needed rebuilding but Stiles had been riding with Derek, which they both enjoyed mightily when Stiles had mentioned that the rocks which had been mortared together in the middle ages were looking like they needed to be repointed and that the bridge creaked a bit.

Had it been anyone else who had mentioned that the bridge needed a little work it probably would have been repointed, perhaps the blocks would have been checked to make sure that they were not loose, but as it had been Stiles to point it out to Derek just before he had discovered that he was with child, the entire bridge had to be rebuilt and Derek wanted very much to be part of it to make sure no harm came to his Mari, and when a few weeks later Stiles had confirmed what he was beginning to suspect when they had ridden that day, that he was with child, overseeing the rebuilding of the bridge had become helping, or so he thought, the masons. He was carrying bricks and buckets of mortar because they wouldn't let him, title or no, do anymore.

Stiles had told him that day that he would bring them lunch, mostly Stiles was too busy about the business of running the house, or with Laura, or Lydia meeting with the neighbours but with one day free he had told him he would bring them lunch, as long as the weather remained clement. If it had started raining Boyd could get an oil cloth and wet.

Derek had just kissed him and laughed, whilst Boyd, standing attendance at the side of the table and looked across to the skies to make sure that he would not be required to walk to the bridge in the pouring rain because it was the sort of thing that Stiles would do.

“It be his lordship, lads," the head mason said, removing his cap and wiping his hands on his apron, "best behaviour."

“I’m his lordship too," Derek said, dipping his hands in the stream to wash the muck and mortar from them.

“When you're on my site, you ain't got no title," the foreman, Parsons said, “you do what you’re told and carry what we tell you. We’ll be nice to ‘im.” He said with a smile, wiping at his moustache with the back of a grey hand, the mortar almost ingrained in the creases of his hands. They were all wearing thick moleskin trousers, covered in dust, mud and mortar, and leather vests, they all had their hair covered by caps, but Derek did not. His clothes were unsuitable and ruined, his idea of work clothes and their idea of work clothes were very different.

“I have brought you some lunch," Stiles said, putting down the basket, and accepting the kiss that Derek placed on his cheek, wrinkling his nose at the smell of him. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“We ain't never going to say nay to a meal, yer lordship," the foreman said, bobbing his head again, “we have some pastries wrapped in our packs, but we ain't so ungrateful to turn our noses up to a kindness." Stiles sat down on one of the large blocks that had been taken from the old bridge. They were sat beside the stream and the road waiting to be dragged away or tipped into the water. There had been some talk of using them to help build a weir beside the mill as the pond was not as reliable as it could be.

He rubbed his hand over his belly, it was not yet a nervous gesture but it reassured him. “It's the least we can do, Mr Parsons, with you putting up with his lordship’s assistance.”

Derek, who had been sitting at Stiles' feet so he could rest his head against Stiles' thigh, made a noise. He reached over to the basket and took one of the loaves, tearing into it and offering half to Stiles who took it.

“Given time and hard work he might make a fair labourer," Mr Parsons said sitting on the grass, “but I imagine a sea bath might be in his future, he’ll be stiff as a board and sore as a new bruise tomorrow, but given time, when his hands ain't as soft as lily blooms, then he might be of some use to us.”

Stiles laughed and ruffled Derek's hair, “I am quite fond of him, Mr Parsons, I’m not sure I can let you keep him.” He said, “he does have his own employment.”

“Aye," Mr Parsons said, “he couldn't keep that big ‘ouse on a mason's wage," he laughed, passing around the food in the basket, spreading it out on the cloth that Stiles had covered the basket with. “You excited for the babe?” he asked.

Stiles had always been rather informal with the staff, but still, the question verged on insult, simply because of the difference in their stations. Nevertheless, he swallowed the piece of crust that he had been chewing. “It is our first," he admitted, “so I only have a vague idea of what to expect.”

“Aye," Mr Parson said, “when my first was born my wife, my Molly, she was terrified, but by our ninth, our wee Willie, she was an old hand at it, why she was able to tell to the day when he was coming and made sure the children were with the vicar so they weren't underfoot. You’ll get there, your lordship, everythin’ is scary the first time.”

“Even building a bridge?” Stiles asked.

“Aye, but you got a good’un there," he gestured towards Derek with his head, “he ain't shut up for talking ‘bout you. He’s a crap mason, but he’s gon’ on you.”

"Oh, I know that, Mr Parsons," Stiles said, “I’ll have him dunked in the sea before I let him back in the house, he’s all muck and muscle, and smells like a dead pig.”

“That’s the smell of hard work," Mr Parson said, “he ain't never done it afore, it’s been hard on him.” He was a little patronising as he said it but Derek barked out a laugh.

“He likes me like this, I am like one of those wild Scottish lords in his novels, the ones that no one wants to actually meet." Derek continued, “the actual wild Scottish lords are much more ripe.”

“Old Laird McCall,” Stiles said, “you smell him coming, Whitehall said that he would not be allowed back without providing pomanders for all of those present.” Derek rested his head against Stiles’ belly, letting Stiles muss his head. “If this one started to smell like that I shall do more than merely dunk him in the sea.”

Mr Parsons laughed, sharing around the food. “You are lucky, your lordship," he rubbed his moustache between thumb and forefinger, “that one is stupid for you, he ain't done nothing but talk ‘bout you all day, even when he should’a been working.”

Stiles rubbed his hand over his belly. “Don’t you know the story of how we met?” he said, “why it was quite the scandal.”


End file.
